Twelve Days of Christmas
by sakurasencha
Summary: AU version of Series 2 X-mas Special. Join the residents and visitors of Downton Abbey as they celebrate the holidays and resolve all the series 2 plot lines. Every character, every pairing.
1. Day 1: Invitations

_This is essentially a take on what will be the Christmas special, which means that as of December 25 (or even now what with all the spoilers coming out) this entire fic will be officially AU._ _My goal is to have it finished by the time the special airs (but we shall see), tie up all the loose plot threads, and generally just let the DA folks have a break from all the angst with a bit of fun and Christmas cheer.  
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_This fic will eventually include every character and every pairing. It also shouldn't be taken too seriously. Except for the serious parts. And maybe not even then._

_Many unending thanks to the indefatigable AriadneO for the encouragement and Beta!  
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><p><strong>Day One: Invitations<strong>

Family breakfast was the usual affair – as usual as any meal could be when said family was unspeakably and glaringly minus one. Edith felt the loss most keenly during this hour, the seating arrangements strategically designed to have Papa at the head, Mary and Mama on either side, and Edith hanging off to one end like a broken fingernail, a vacant chair as her only cross-table companion. Such was her life, she mused idly at the sideboard, considered only fit enough to entertain an expensively carved piece of mahogany.

She scooped up another serving of egg, the clink of spoon on plate contrasting sharply against the soft rustling of the paper as her father turned a page. "And have you sent out all the invitations for Christmas?" she heard him ask of her mother from the table.

Edith returned to her seat in time to hear the reply. "Yesterday morning. I'm expecting quite a full house this season!" Mama said, wide-eyed, her smile balancing precariously on that fine line between happiness and horror.

Mary's features could only hope to strive to such nuance, quipping with unmistakable disdain, "I should hope so, for all our sakes. We'll need as many barriers as we can, preferably human, to keep ourselves from rubbing too closely with certain undesirable and unmentionable relatives."

Papa mumbled something in incoherent agreement, Mama clucked something in faint disapproval, and when Edith felt her turn had come to offer an opinion either way, she found she could hardly muster the will to care, for Sybil plus Branson made two extra for breakfast – and Edith would still be left to sit by herself. Instead she said nothing, and was unsurprised that no one seemed to notice the absence of her voice.

* * *

><p>Just beyond in the village proper, an old man lay prostrate, desolate with grief at the prospect of his first Christmas completely and utterly alone, on an unmade bed in an unkempt house.<p>

_Mary. William._

Wife and son long buried into the earth. Father and husband left to linger on its surface, more a walking specter of grief than a living, breathing body. But there in his hand rested a beacon of hope: a small note inscribed with neat and tidy letters, clearly not written by the author's own uneducated hand.

_Dear Mr. Mason,_

_I know I haven't spoken much to you since Miss Swire's funeral, and I am sorry for it. I was hoping if you have the time you could spare a visit to Downton the day after tomorrow, for there's much I'd like to share with you._

_Sincerely,_

_Mrs. Daisy Mason_

* * *

><p>On the outskirts of Yorkshire, a baby boy cried and his mother smiled. She too had a parcel of hope delivered that morning:<p>

_Ethel-_

_As you might be alone this Christmas, I've arranged to have a space for you in the servants' quarters for a few days. The house will be full and we'll all be busy, but Lady Grantham felt it not right that you should be alone for the holidays. _

_-Elsie Hughes_

* * *

><p>More than several dozen acres over, Sir Anthony Strallan – widower, landlord, and once would-be-suitor to Lady Edith Crawley – knifed through a cream colored envelope with all the gusto of a rheumatoid partridge. The Crest of the Crawleys assaulted his vision and aroused his senses. He had seen neither hide nor hair of any member of that household since before the war, and despite the painful circumstances which had divided him from their society, the idea of spending Christmas in a house full of people – of gaiety, of laughter, and most of all, of companionship – sent a vigorous surge through retired limbs that had long forgotten the feeling of vivacity.<p>

He inhaled deeply. The empty library smelled of musty books and hours of solitude. It had been over four years since his heart had borne the bitter pierce of rejection, and he felt that time had finally served its universal purpose in healing the wound. Grabbing pen and paper from within the desk drawer, he wasted no more time in scribbling a note to be sent directly to the Countess of Grantham that he would be delighted to share in the Crawley family's Christmas Holiday.

* * *

><p>Miles away a man sat brooding, though in all outward appearances merely reading mildly. Those familiar with his moods knew better; his mother certainly did.<p>

"Matthew," she tentatively tried. He flicked a page, silent.

"Matthew," she insisted again, forcing herself bodily into his den of seclusion. He closed the book and set it aside, keeping his eyes fixed on the uncovered window.

"Matthew," she clipped, growing exasperated. "I've had a letter from Cora. She'd like us both at Downton for Christmas. I've already sent a note saying we'd be more than happy to accept her invitation." Her son's dramatics had been an unwelcome visitor in their Manchester home since they'd left the country estate, and Isobel was more than ready for a change of scenery.

Bloodless eyes ascended to land on the matronly face. "How could you, Mother! And without even consulting me!" he charged. "You must send another note, telling her I cannot come. I don't think I could bear it; the thought alone is enough to deject me."

"Really, Matthew, I know it was painful, but that was nearly eight months ago. It might be time to think about moving on. I understand that –"

"No!" the objection wrenched from his throat. "I don't think you understand at all!" he wailed, the voice of a thousand laments. "'I am the cat who walks by himself, and–"

"' – and all places are alike to me'. Yes, yes, we've all heard it before!" Isobel tut-tutted in annoyance, but her countenance softened when she added, "I know what it is to lose someone, Matthew, and what I've learned is that you cannot hide from the world forever. We shall go to Downton this Christmas, we shall be pleasant company for our cousins, and we shall learn to be happy again!"

* * *

><p>Even yet farther, in an English metropolis – London – that great city of history, theatre, and fashion (even if only of the borrowed kind), several occupants looked up from their morning tea when their butlers announced a letter had arrived.<p>

"Of course my brother and his wife want me at Downton for Christmas!" At times Lady Rosamund Painswick felt herself too clever for her own good. "It has nothing to do with my company; they only want a full house to keep the awkwardness at bay when Sybil bears down on the family with that low-born husband in tow!" A creaking of ancient walls was the only commendation of her discernment, and for a moment Lady Rosamund wondered just who exactly she was trying to convince in the all but empty house.

Behind her the butler coughed, apologized, carried on with his silent duties, and sent wordless assurance to Lady Rosamund that her speeches were not in vain. "Well if I must go, then I am determined to bring dear Hepworth along. Cora won't mind another body – certainly not this Christmas – and I simply cannot do without his presence this season," she decided at last, setting down the lavish card while another invitee examined theirs.

"Christmas at Downton? What say you, father?"

Viscount Brankson said naught in reply, but merely shook his head in polite, yet firm dissent. Evelyn parried with his own measured pause, lobbing off an intent stare for good measure.

"Well I think it a fine idea," Evelyn finally broke the silence. "Mother's been gone for nearly six years, and it would be pleasant to enjoy Christmas in the country once again."

The Viscount sighed, resigned to his fate in the face of such mild persuasion, irritated that his son had inherited his mother's overwhelming force of will.

* * *

><p>Across a fairly short yet turbulent sea, a husband attempted to stand his ground.<p>

"I am _not_ going to Downton for Christmas!" he cried, the sheet of crumpled paper in his hand only a blur amidst its frantic waving.

"I don't see why not," his wife replied impassively.

"Why not? _Why not_?" Sybil let her mind wander to more important matters than the innumerable protestations that streamed out of her husband's mouth. Betwixt her quiet ponderings over heart valve regurgitation and arteriovenous malformation, she faintly comprehended the list of petty and inconsequential rebuttals such as "how awkward it will be" and "Carson would as soon pour the soup on my head as serve it in my bowl" and "I have absolutely nothing to wear to dinner".

"Well neither do I – at least not any more," she chimed forth, her attention snapping back at the mere allusion to clothing. "We'll simply have to borrow some, that's all there is too it." She gave a moment for Branson to collect his jaw from the floor at the notion before continuing. "I don't even know why you keep arguing when you know I'll just have my own way in the end," she teased, gliding an errant finger down his cheek, the timbre of her voice hovering dangerously close to the edge of huskiness.

Branson wanted to stand firm, tried to summon the savage willpower of his mighty ancestors to fight the face (and hands and voice) of temptation, but to no avail. For in the deepest, utterly terrified depths of his heart, he knew that she was right.

* * *

><p>And an ocean away, traveling back over land and sea, back to where it had all begun, to where the wheels had first been set in motion – to a large estate in the far reaches of Yorkshire.<p>

And up in the tower, in an unused and normally unoccupied room, and overlooking the vastness wrought by generations of antiquated hierarchy, two figures stood vigil, surveying it all by the window.

"Such a tangled mess it all is."

"Unfortunately so, my lady."

"Fate has been abominably useless in turning the tides of luck for this family. It's high time I took matters into my own hands."

"You mean you haven't already?"

She chuckled. "You've known me far too long, Carson. Mark my words: everything shall be settled by Christmas."

"With all due respect, my lady, that's also what they said about the war."

"Perhaps," she conceded. Then, with a sharp rap of her cane against the sill, "But that's only because they had unwisely chosen not to put the Dowager Countess of Grantham in charge!"


	2. Day 2: Ruminations

_I'm already going to warn you, this chapter has a much more serious tone. Now, don't eat me, I did also categorize this fic as a drama!_

_A little background on this fic: I started it around later November, before there were any real spoilers about what might happen, so this fic will be generally spoiler free for the CS save for a few minor things, and will not take into account things we have since learend (like no S/B). It also means that I have been writing it at a frenetic pace to try and finish it before Christmas, so if there are mistakes please bear with me!_

_Many thanks to AriadneO for beting!_

* * *

><p><strong>Day 2: Ruminations<strong>

"My favorite time of year!" someone squealed, the tinkling of bells in the frosty morning air. Anna allowed the cushion a few moments glorious reprieve from the violent plumping and looked towards the voice which dared interrupt her routine early-morning pillow-venting.

Standing chipper by the fire grate beamed a pair of eager eyes and a toothy grin: Daisy. Of course Daisy.

"It used to be mine…" Anna almost agreed, heaving a sigh.

"Aw, cheer up!" Daisy chirped. Naiveté was one of the hallmarks of the young kitchen maid's charm; a lack of tact one of its chief detractors. "I'm sure all this business with Mr. Bates will be sorted out before you know it!" she offered brightly, oblivious to the grimace her prediction had inspired.

"How can you possibly say that, Daisy? He's been in prison for nearly eight months!"

"Has it really been that long? Don't worry Anna – we all know he didn't do it, and the truth will come out some time." Here Daisy paused to defocus her gaze and settle it meaningfully on some far distant spot above the bookcase. "It always does," she finished cryptically, before collecting her grate-cleaning equipage, moving towards the door, flickering a final, encouraging smile as Anna recommenced her furious pillow fluffing and hastily making her way back downstairs to the kitchen.

Mrs. Patmore was mid-scurry when Daisy arrived, a rebuke already quivering at the tip of her tongue.

"What have you been up to, girl? You were to clean the fire grates, not smelt a pair of new ones!"

"Sorry, Mrs. Patmore! I saw Anna down in the blue drawing room and stayed a few minutes to have a chat." Daisy set about her duties, a jaunty hum filling the air and mingling with the standard hustle and bustle of the breakfast preparations. Mrs. Patmore noted the upbeat melody, and the lift in spirits that her young assistant had been displaying of late.

"You've been in a better mood lately. Did that tumble down the stairs yesterday finally knock some sense into you?"

"It has," Daisy grinned. "I've been thinking a lot lately – more than I ever done before – and I've finally made some decisions." Mrs. Patmore waited, expectant, assuming further explanation would be soon forthcoming, forgetting that Daisy still sometimes possessed that shyness of youth which makes any disclosure, like a bent and rusted nail, something to be pried loose.

"Well, go on girl, tell me what it is you've decided before I die of old age!" she at last snapped, irritated.

"You see, I sent a note round to Mr. Mason and asked him to stop by tomorrow for a visit."

"Oh, have you? I'm glad you've finally seen reason! And just what are you planning on doing with your father-in-law?" Daisy's smile dripped ease and confidence, like honey off the comb, a stark contrast to the furrow of guilt that had continually marred her brow since William's death earlier that year.

"What I should have done months ago," was as much she was willing to say on the matter.

* * *

><p>Silver plated jewel boxes and hand painted fans had at one time intoxicated her senses, but by now Sarah O'Brien had spent enough years working amidst such lavishness to stop the sparkles from blinding her. The glamor of being a lady's maid had long worn off, and with the scales that dropped from Sarah's eyes came an understanding that it was really only a fraction of her job that lay in the dressing and the pampering. The bulk of it rested in listening, in advising, and in being the one friend that only money could buy.<p>

_Friend. Friendship. _

Those were the words that had tugged at O'Brien all morning. She could count on one finger the number of true friends she could ascribe as her own, and quiet reflections had steadily turned into mounting dread at the dwindling number of days Thomas was assured to remain at Downton, a number that ran parallel to the amount of days till John Bates' trial.

Her Ladyship's thoughts traced a similar vein, though with differing associations.

"His Lordship's been in one of his moods. I think it must have something to do with Bates' trial," Lady Grantham mentioned idly, patting a bob of curls O'Brien had just expertly pinned into place.

"Very likely, my lady."

"I'm not sure how he'll take it if Bates is actually convicted. He's determined to see that man as his valet till the day he dies," she repined, forbearing to indicate whether it was servant or master whose death she was referencing.

"I'm sure everything will work out just as it ought," was the measured reply. Lady Grantham plunked her hands in her lap like a child caught with the forbidden cookie, chastened features reflected in the mirror.

"Of course you're right. It's useless to worry. I'm sure we'll have Bates back here and suggesting hideous cufflinks to his Lordship before we know it."

"Yes, I suppose," O'Brien said softly, "although…I think it a shame that Thomas should be pushed out, after all he's done lately for the family." Lady Grantham turned round to look at her maid without the vicarious assistance of metal plated glass.

"Would you like me to speak to his Lordship about it?"

"Of course not, my lady, there's really no reason. And I wouldn't want to put you to the trouble."

"Thomas is your friend, isn't he, O'Brien?" her Ladyship asked.

"Yes, my lady, he is. A very good friend."

Cora smiled.

"Well. That's enough of a reason for me."

* * *

><p>Downstairs, preparations of another kind were being attended to. Mrs. Hughes was deep in thought ordering the tasks for the day, when her attention was arrested by a familiar knock on the door. Busy as she was, and sure of the identity of the intruder, she didn't bother giving permission for entry.<p>

He didn't bother waiting for it.

"Everything ready for Sir Richard's arrival tomorrow night?" Carson's peeping head asked through a crack in the door.

"I believe so. I've had Lily and Grace prepare the room, and of course Mrs. Patmore was informed immediately." Temptation to soliloquize the numerous transgressions of the newspaper baron and his impromptu visitations besieged her, but over fifty years of learned restraint kept the forked tongue between her teeth.

Carson entered fully into the parlor, with no such compunctions about staying his complaints. A head full of swirling reflections had left the butler feeling far less benevolent than the housekeeper this morning.

"I cannot pretend that I'm at all glad to see Sir Richard partake of Downton's hospitality once again."

"Don't I know it. Every time he comes, he gives almost no notice, and then we're all left scurrying to accommodate him."

"It's not the terms of his arrival that I take issue with. It's that he's decided to come at all." Carson groped the reaches of his mind to find a way to express the source of his uneasiness. He finally settled on, "I can't help the feeling that his presence does Lady Mary more harm than good."

"Well that's an odd opinion to have, considering she's marrying the man in little over a fortnight!"

And there was the sticking point: His dear Mary wed, bound for a lifetime, to that unscrupulous character. He had already resigned himself to the inevitability of the union, but the Dowager's words and confidences of the day before lingered in his mind, reinforcing his earlier contemplations into firm conviction.

There would be no more fickleness, no more hesitancy. At that moment Charlie Carson affirmed his allegiance, and swore a silent oath.

_Sir Richard Carlisle will sooner be dead than married to Lady Mary Crawley_.

* * *

><p>Cuffed and guarded, John Bates was led from his dank cell to another room lit barely brighter. "A visitor for you," his sentry told him, "the same bloke as last month."<p>

The officer stood vigil in the corner while Matthew Crawley received his update.

"And how is Bellamy working out for you? Is he doing a better job than Carter?" Matthew asked.

"I believe so. He's certainly worked hard to get the case moving forward again. He says opening arguments should begin in a few days."

Matthew fidgeted, uncomfortable. "I feel terrible about what's happened. You hired Carter with my referral, and when I think how he's dragged his feet on this case – "

"Please, Mr. Crawley, no apologies. What matters is that things are moving again and that the case will soon be going to trial. Whatever the outcome may be, I'm eternally indebted to you for all your help."

Outside, pulling on gloves and wrapping round his scarf, Bates' final words wormed their way into Matthew's brain, parasitic, leeching the last vestiges of self worth. He did not deserve Bates' compliments. Indeed, he did not deserve anything at all. Had he not played, wounded, murdered Lavinia's heart? Had he not toyed, rejected, devastated Mary's?

Matthew felt the warning signs of dejection and struggled to suppress them. Locked inside the prison was a man with his neck halfway into the noose, while here he stood: living, whole, and still heir to the great estate and fortune of Downton Abbey. What right had he to wallow, to crawl belly first through the mire of self-pity?

He had once remarked – unkindly he could now admit, though the awareness gave him pain – that life had been a dream before. Matthew felt the wind whip chilly across his skin, heard a child laugh from around the corner of the prison yard, and almost smiled.

Perhaps it was time to start dreaming again.

* * *

><p>At the vanity she sat an ivory statue – and some would argue just as heartless. But her sometimes confidante had too often been privy to the tempest of complexity that belied its bearer's smooth and steely surface. Anna knew what troubles seeped through the cracks in her mistress' facade. She broached the topic tentatively.<p>

"I heard Sir Richard will be coming up from London tomorrow night."

"Yes," Mary replied. "He wants to go over a few details for the wedding, and to see the progress at Haxby."

"I'm surprised he pushed off the wedding date till the New Year. He seemed very eager to have it in July."

"With half of London in mourning? However quickly Sir Richard wants us wed, he also wants our wedding to be an event worth remembering – difficult to do with no one in attendance." The dryness of winter never failed to unleash its savagery on Lady Mary's delicate skin, and she smoothed another pat of lotion into her hands before continuing. "No, it shall be a New Year's wedding – as grand and ostentatious as his headlines can make it."

They lapsed into silence. Anna tucked and pinned and arranged till Aphrodite personified sat ready for dinner. Before she went down Mary turned to ask, "And how are things with Bates?"

"Better. I got a letter this morning. The new lawyer Mr. Crawley fixed him with has gotten things moving again. The trial will start very soon, he says. I'm actually going to see him – tomorrow, on my half day off."

Anna smiled a sunbeam. Mary envied its glow. In bouts of whimsy she thought of Anna as some kind of downstairs counterpart. And in most things she was – save for the knowledge of his returned affection, for the security of the band wrapped like healing gauze around her finger, for the freedom of choice to make her life what she will – save for this:

Hope.

* * *

><p>The dinner hour in a house such as Downton rendered the footman indispensable; the valet unnecessary. Thomas enjoyed the leisure his new position afforded him, discovering early on the least occupied corridor where he could pause, and think, and be.<p>

He was there now, performing his primary duty of increasing the level of attractiveness in whatever area he inhabited, when his sanctuary was disturbed by one of the new footman – Peter, wasn't it? – tumbling through the door, clearly lost, clearly new, and clearly still learning. Thomas could give a master course on the art of chastisement and was on his way to starting a lesson when he saw the man-child rub at his eyes, yawning heavily.

"Tired?" Thomas smirked, jolting the footman with a douse of cold surprise.

"No, no," he replied too quickly. "That is – perhaps a bit – but not very."

Thomas un-leaned his form from the wall very slowly, lest a single, precisely placed hair should shift out of place.

"Heard a bit of a commotion up in the quarters last night. You and the other one – Henry is it? – had a bit of a late one, I take it?"

"No! Not – not anything to trouble yourself over, Mr. Barrow!" he quaked, before his long limbs scurried him back off to the kitchen in time for the dessert course.

Thomas was less than convinced – really the boy may as well have tattooed his forehead that he was hiding something – but Thomas gave him no more thought. The awful truth was he hardly had any left to spare when he had his own job to be concerned about.

* * *

><p>Dinner had been a tedious affair, Edith and Mary alternating between sullen silence and sardonic sniping. Cora understood that a mother was bound to love all her children equally, but at that moment she would have unequivocally declared Sybil her favorite based solely on the virtue of her absence.<p>

During the meal she had bespoken the role of referee between the daughters whose common ground had ceased along with the firing of the guns over one year ago. Tight smiles that never wavered and forced segues to more pleasant conversation were her maternal burdens to bear, but here in the sanctity of the marriage bed, she allowed the veneer of pleasantness to drop and her true opinions to emerge.

"Mary and Edith were in fine form tonight, wouldn't you agree darling?"

Robert glanced up from his article, disgusted. "Really, Cora. I'm having trouble thinking of a more disrespectful way to speak about our daughters."

"Come now, Robert. They're grown women, not babies to be coddled," she argued. "I love them both dearly but can admit when they're being awful."

Abruptly he stood. "I think I'll sleep in my dressing room tonight." He made for the door, bowed stiffly, and with a curt "Goodnight, Cora" was gone.

The Countess' face fell, along with several drops that had been brimming in her eyes. She rested her cheek against the duvet, breathed in the bitter air of separation, and wondered for the rest of the night when love had first slipped to tolerance, and devotion to indifference.


	3. Day 3: Visitations

_Apologies in advance for the romantic bits here (and all future installments). Romance is not really my forte, although i do try, in my own, halfhearted way :D_

_Don't have much else to say, except a thank you to all who have taken the time to review. It really gives me encouragement to keep up the pace, so thanks so much!_

_Also more lavish praise upon AriadneO, my DA brain twin, for the Beta!_

* * *

><p><strong>Day 3: Visitations<strong>

"The silver cufflinks, I think, with the regimental insignia," Lord Grantham decided, his voice possessing that strong assurance of a man who for over fifty years had never once dressed himself.

A pair of hands, one of them conspicuously gloved, hovered over the unarguably terrible choice. Bates wouldn't have paused for breath before commending his master's selection and allowing him to be paraded about London in such a hideous combination. But Thomas Barrow liked to think of himself as another breed of valet altogether: one with flair, with taste, and a flawless sense of style.

"A good choice, milord, but perhaps the brass with the fleur-de-lis would match better with that shirt."

Puzzlement first, then the dewy glow of enlightenment claimed the Earl's stately features. "I believe you may be right," he replied, awestruck. "I must say, Thomas, I've received more than a few compliments on my attire since you've taken over as valet. I'm sure I'll receive a few more when I make my visit to London this afternoon."

"It's been a privilege to serve as your valet these past months. I'd like to think I've served you well, but I suppose once Bates gets back…"

"I know we've had our differences, but as you've proven yourself more than trustworthy this past half year, we'd be more than happy to keep you on as footman," the Earl offered.

"Thank you, milord. Quite generous," Thomas replied, outwardly the picture of humble serenity, inwardly with a heart that was seething.

* * *

><p>Jostled uncomfortably all the way there. Sat next to a disgruntled farmer and his five, squirming children. Delayed for an hour when a herd of sheep found it imperative to cross the road in a noisy and leisurely fashion. All in all, Anna could not remember a more pleasant bus ride to Ripon.<p>

The officer on duty had been expecting her, and led her to a small room with two chairs, a square table set between. He told her he would fetch her husband, that it wouldn't take very long, and to please make herself comfortable. Anna carefully sat at the edge of one of the chairs, collected together what fortitude remained, when a few minutes later – the officer hadn't been lying – Mr. Bates entered the room.

A meager restraint controlled her feet from flying when she first saw him, but was cast aside once the shackles were removed.

"How are you?" she breathed into his chest.

"Better." He grasped her hand. "Good." He kissed it softly. "Happy–" his lips traced her faced, paused to graze her lips "–now that you're here."

She smiled into his kiss and savored his embrace.

"I've missed you," she whispered. _More than you can know_, her mind murmured dangerously, the benign words floating atop countless other confessions more harmful. Their toxicity burned at the back of her throat, but she recalled her promise and with effort gulped them down.

"Right, Mr. Bates. I've already told myself: only pleasant things today. No talk of the trial, or the future, or anything like that. Today will be just about today."

They were given one hour. She made his cheeks sting with laughter when she relayed the story about Lily getting locked in the supply cupboard a week ago last Thursday.

"O'Brien's doing, you suspect?" he chuckled.

"Maybe. Lily had said something nasty about the state of her button box – you know how O'Brien is about her button box."

The guard tapped twice at the door: thirty minutes left. He set her face ablaze with anger when he recited the letter from his previous lawyer, demanding the last payment in full.

"We won't stand for it! If Mr. Carter had wanted to get paid, he should've had care enough to actually get the work done!"

"A firecracker to the very end, even after all the trouble I've dragged you through. You're an amazing woman, Anna Bates."

"I already told you: no talk about 'trouble' today or anything of the like."

When the officer looked through the peephole to announce their time was over, he spied a woman weeping, her face cradled in the prisoner's hands. He heard her mutter an apology, something about not having the strength to keep her promise, and he turned his face away as they kissed each other softly, perhaps for the last time.

Opening arguments would begin the next day, and as Anna sat comfortably in the sparsely occupied bus, ambling down the roads as smooth as glass, arriving fifteen minutes early to the familiar lane of the Main Street in Downton Village, she could not recall a worse trip home.

* * *

><p>Sarah inhaled, deep drags of smoke looping her nostrils.<p>

"And so he really thinks you'll be happy getting knocked back down to footman? Typical."

Thomas exhaled, thin strings of smoke circling the air.

"Not sure why I was surprised. Lord G and old Bates are inseparable – like a grand romance just waiting to happen."

"Who says it hasn't already?" She puffed out a billow as Thomas visibly winced, shuddering at the thought. "But suppose he's convicted?" she continued once the images of horror faded. "Suppose he never leaves prison? Or better yet – suppose he leaves this world altogether?"

It was a routine they had. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. Like a fire bellows, they were, fanning the flames of past grudges that Thomas could no longer care less about. What was it Captain Crawley had said? Something about war making such and such seem not as important or what have you.

Thomas stubbed out his cigarette.

"I don't hold anything against Bates – not anymore. I'll be bloody annoyed if I get pushed back down to footman, but if they do, then I'll take it. Don't have many options at the moment, and I'd rather go back to waiting tables than begging for scraps at them. Besides," he turned to his friend, raising an eyebrow, "might even give me a chance to work out a little mystery with those two new footmen – Paul and Horace, yeah?"

"As if I bloody well know."

"Well, they're up to something, and I mean to find out. Care to join me?"

Sarah's answer was precipitated by a deluge of thick grey smoke that she'd been storing up especially for this very moment.

"Can't," she replied, and in the haze Thomas was sure he caught a brief flash of pink tainting her cheeks. "I'm busy today."

"Thought it was your half day today. Don't you share it with Anna?"

"Exactly, you peanut! _That's_ why I'm busy." She stubbed out the remains of her cigarette, faint wisps of smoke clinging to the winter air. "I'm going to the village to pay someone a visit," she explained as though enjoying a crowded social calendar was, for Miss Sarah O'Brien, a simple matter of fact.

Thomas knew better.

"Fancy a boyfriend?" he asked with a smirk.

"I know you do," she answered, tossing him a withering scowl before heading back inside.

* * *

><p>"Tighter, Shore. Just a bit…tighter….there!" Lady Rosamund wheezed. She puckered her lips in satisfaction at the sight of the slim-to-none waist reflected seductively in the mirror. Perfection may come at a painful price, as her all but collapsed lungs continually reminded her, but sod the new fashions! She'd sooner be mistaken for an emaciated woman than a twelve-year-old boy any day.<p>

And today was not just any day. It was the day that Lord Hepworth – mature, refined, moderately handsome, and exceedingly rich – would be visiting her for afternoon tea.

"Lady Rosamund," he greeted when she entered the drawing room. "As ravishing as ever!"

"You can thank my new lady's maid. She's an absolute revelation," Rosamund extolled, easing into a chair as the butler handed her a cup of tea.

"I had heard about your coup! Don't you know how abominably rude it is to poach someone else's servant – and your own cousin's, no less!"

"If Lady Flintshire lacks the mental capacity to appreciate a lady's maid with the genius of Shore, then it's no fault of mine. I simply throw my offers of employment out to the ether and let avarice take care of the rest."

The conversation raced on. Lord Hepworth was of that class who prided themselves on never loitering over any one topic for long, and like a tornado, he sailed past the obligatory openers of roads and weather, whipped through the well-beings of all mutual acquaintances, and finally touched down with a flurry of inquiries – Did she know anything about the scandal brewing over Lord Haverford's latest mistress? – Had she been present for Lady Carthwright's infamous "décolletage debacle" that had the whole of London buzzing? – Had she seen the latest opera everyone was raging about?

"Opera?" Rosamund cried, alarmed.

"Forgive me," he laughed. "I don't mean to frighten you away with tedious talk of culture. Sometimes I throw out words just to be fashionable!"

"You mean provoking," Rosamund corrected, not at all provoked.

"Fashionably provoking, then. My dear Lady Rosamund, we're running in circles! Let us dive into the heart of the matter: you've asked me to join you for Christmas, and with many thanks at your kind generosity etcetera, etcetera, I happily accept your invitation!"

Within her artificially elevated bosom, Lady Rosamund rejoiced, but not any more so than the owner of a pair of amber eyes spying from a crack in the door. Marigold Shore exulted in her new choice of mistress, and in that mistress' choice of beau, hungrily eyeing the aristocrat with the insatiable appetite of ambition. Marigold licked her lips.

She had found her latest conquest.

* * *

><p>Tea was laid in Mrs. Hughes' sitting room. Daisy had thought the offer quite generous for a second string kitchen maid and had showered the housekeeper profuse and unwelcome thanks.<p>

Minutes stretched with the clanking of spoons stirring in sugar and the loud munching of unrefined eating. At length, Daisy's trembling voice made its debut, not so much meek as cautious.

"You see, Mr. Mason, I've asked you to come so I could tell you something, something I don't think you'd like to hear. But William once told me there were no lies in your house and I think…I think you should know it anyway."

She went on to explain, as best she could, how it came to be that William was wed to a woman who did not love him, who had accepted a ring and taken his name at the consultation of those around her rather than of her own heart, and how that knowledge had stabbed at her conscience, bled dry her integrity, till she was compelled to own the truth.

"But William did right by me, in the way that he thought best. And even though I didn't love William, I want to do right by him – and by you. I'm not sure how I'll do it, but I'll find away."

Father-in-law gathered together enough grace to be grateful, though not quite enough for pardon, but he clutched at the hand proffered from across the small table all the same.

"I promise, Mr. Mason. I'll find a way," she told him, not a single tremor in her voice.

From the other side of the vent, Mrs. Hughes blinked away her tears.

* * *

><p>"I wasn't sure you'd come."<p>

"Don't have much else to do."

"Haven't found a job then?"

"Haven't been looking. I'm still not fit to work."

There wasn't much talk to be had, but what little they did share was companionable, dotted with a quiet dose of something more, an unacknowledged what-if that time and circumstance had not allowed them leisure to explore.

Mr. Lang appeared better, she thought. There was still something of the ghost about his eyes and mouth, but when he looked at her, she could see his gaze was no longer haunted by bloody shores, and when he spoke, his voice didn't sound as though it was choking on buckets of mud. He told her of the doctor he'd been sent to and his method to help those like him to let go of the demons that gripped their reality, twisting it to nightmares.

"That's what he tells us. It's all about letting go, of the guilt, the pain, the anger – everything. If we keep it in, it'll destroy us is what he says."

Walking back to the house, Sarah thought of her own demons. The pitiful childhood, the brother who was now a stranger, the guilt of past sins that she wore like a stone around her neck. When Bates' had first arrived, stealing the job that rightfully belonged to Thomas, she'd found it easy to pour out her wrath on the obnoxiously upright fool.

But now even Thomas had let that go. Sarah felt she should as well, but in Bates she'd found a scapegoat, something to hang all her pent up ill will and bitterness lest it boil inside and drive her mad. Her grudge was a crutch, she realized, and she wasn't ready to give it up. Not yet.

* * *

><p>The Earl of Grantham struggled. It'd been a common occurrence the past five years, these spontaneous battles with a faceless enemy, and yet still he was not strong enough to conquer this latest foe, or to keep himself from travelling down to London, to his man of business, for a private tete-a tete concerning a certain former housemaid.<p>

Murray had told him Jane hadn't taken much – only twenty pounds. He had wanted her to take more, wanted to give her more, so much more than he had any right to, and that desire both thrilled and frightened him.

The car had fetched him promptly from the train station and was now speeding back to Downton, bearing him back to home, hearth, and the wife who was waiting there.

Above, the clouds opened and bathed the ground below, glazing the car window and clouding the view from without. He could wipe at the glass, he considered, make everything clean and clear again. All it would take was a little effort and a willingness to get his hands wet.

* * *

><p>The sky above Dublin dimmed dark and grey this time of year – well, most times of the year – Nurse Branson considered when she felt the telltale chill infuse the air and the first fat droplets of rain splatter her nose. She clutched the woolen coat tighter about her shoulders, so cold was she that she didn't even mind the itchy way it rubbed against her neck or the unkind faces that sneered their judgments as she hurried down the street towards home.<p>

Light the fire, fill the kettle, toast a biscuit or two. An endless shift of bandages and thermometers had left her exhausted, but her fingers plodded through the mundane tasks without a thread of resentment. After tea she studied, absorbing with fascination the details of the circulatory system. She had to smile when she reached the section pertaining to the mitral valve, and wonder at how the circumstances which brought such agony at one period of life could, in another, seem, if not quite funny, then at the very least amusing.

Her ears listened in anticipation to any rustle of disturbance by the door and perked up, eager, when she heard it finally swing open.

"You're a little late," she warned mildly, careful to measure out her tone from carrying any weight of disappointment. She had learned early on that even an ounce was sure to send Branson's usual vigorous devotion spiraling into uncontrolled exuberance: flowers, candy, promises of unswerving faithfulness, declarations to lay down his very life with but a word, etc.

"I never meant to be!" he swore, a lovelorn shimmer already overtaking his eyes, Sybil already growing fearful. "I was just stepping out of the office to come home when a man came in to see me."

"A visitor?" she asked.

"Not really. Just a man. Grigg something or other – never met him before in my life – who had a lead on some kind of scandal. Something involving the Cooperton Motor Company. He thought with my background as a chauffeur I might be interested."

"It sounds rather thrilling! I think you should look into it," she said, her eyes dancing, his eyes narrowing.

"You do understand that I'm a journalist?" he questioned her seriously.

"Yes, exactly," she elaborated helpfully, "that's what they do!"

"I'm not – I'm a political journalist, Sybil, not investigatory. I write columns about candidates and keep people informed about popular movements, not track down criminals in back alleys and warehouses!"

"I think you're being very narrow minded right now, and quite frankly that's something I never thought I'd have to say about you," she rebuked, favoring her head with a disapproving and sultry shake.

Branson wanted to speak, to give use to his learned rhetoric and make his voice heard, but to his dismay (or delight – she often had the power of blurring the distinction) he found that his mouth was rather occupied at the moment. Not that it mattered, he admitted, for there was really no use arguing when he knew she would just have her own way in the end.

And Sybil, perfectly aware of the power of her persuasion, could ignore the tempest raging outside their tiny flat in Dublin, for in his arms there was warmth, and acceptance, and most of all – love.

* * *

><p>When it rained, it poured.<p>

Trite and saccharine, but it was all Lady Mary could think when the car crushed the gravel and a shadowy figure emerged from its cab, one of the new footman scrambling to keep the umbrella balanced over the taller man's head. Although her bedroom fire roared and her shoulders swam in the thickness of silk and down, her body still wracked with shivers as a fluid ice coursed through her very marrow.

Sir Richard Carlisle had arrived.


	4. Day 4: Decorations

_I will save the author's notes till the end except to say thank you to AriadneO, who beta-ed this chapter like a boss!_

* * *

><p><strong>Day 4: Decorations<strong>

Together they walked, hand in hand, along the cobbled paths that wound through the gardens. Lazily, quietly – at one point he stopped by a pretty little bush to pluck a blossom and tuck it gently behind her ear, and though winter buds often lacked the breathtaking grandeur of spring and summer, their muted hues possessed a quality of restraint that mirrored the pace of the strolling lovers.

The scene as viewed from the casements above might provoke a smile, a sigh, or a tender remark extolling the virtues of beauty and love. But upon closer view, the minutiae of Lady Mary Crawley and Sir Richard Carlisle, overlooked by the careless observer, become disturbingly apparent: the hand that gripped hers, vise-like, draining her delicate skin to a stark shade of white, her movements stiff and precise rather than flowing with their usual languid gracefulness, and the thin strip of red swelling the flesh above her ear where the blossom had grazed, small yet angry thorns adorning the stem.

"And how did you find Haxby this morning?" she asked, careful constraint meting out the words.

"Better than I anticipated. They're nearly finished with the plumbing, although the wiring won't be completed by the time we're ready to move in."

"So our nuptials are to be by candlelight. How fitting."

He pulled her closer, gave off the throaty rumble that counted as his laugh. "We'll have nothing so archaic, I can assure you. It's only the servant's quarters that need finishing. But we can spend the wedding night at Downton, if you prefer. I don't mind putting off carrying you over the threshold, as the tradition goes, until we return from our honeymoon and the improvements are completed."

"I never got the impression that you cared very much for tradition," she replied, sidestepping his implied query regarding their nuptial bed. Whatever roof she stared at as she betook her supine position as wife to Sir Richard Carlisle mattered very little to her.

"It's not only your lot, as you put it, that care for such things," he said, his grip on her hand tightening. "However hard it is for you to believe, I do want to make myself acceptable in your world. My desire is for your utmost happiness –"

_My absolute submission._

"– and when at last I have you as my beloved wife –"

_Your greatest possession._

"– and bring you home to Haxby and all its improvements, I hope that you'll be content there as its mistress."

_Its finest ornament._

Their walk continued. The footpaths below were unchanged from her youth, cracked and jagged, but familiar. On the horizon rested a blanket of mist, soft and beautiful, but concealing what lay yonder.

Mary bowed her head at his sentiments and settled into his grasp.

* * *

><p>Temples throbbing, Carson laid down the ledger and massaged them viciously, able to indulge in this small display of weakness in the place where only one other eye would ever see, and that eye privy to a plethora of failings that went well beyond a penchant for stress headaches.<p>

"Mr. Carson, you're going to rub a hole in your head before you're through."

"Don't I know it," he grumbled. "What with Sir Richard's arrival and now all the preparations for Christmas – I'll never understand why people call this the happiest time of year."

"It's only those who have never been a butler that say that," Mrs. Hughes clucked. "But that's life." She grew quiet, suddenly very interested in the shade of taupe on the wall. "You'll be very busy this year with all the extra guests. I can't imagine you'll have much time to see to your own holiday affairs."

"I'd never have you pegged for a sportsman, Mrs. Hughes, but I can't escape the feeling that you're fishing for something right now."

His cheek was quelled straightaway with a single, glacial look. Flipping his eyes to the small bookcase, on which were displayed a number of glass baubles – a Christmas ornament for every year they had worked together – he pointedly said, "You needn't worry, Mrs. Hughes; I'll put aside the time I need for my Christmas shopping, just as I do every year."

She disdained in her usual way, and when he saw her smile and tut away her blush, he at last understood why people called it the happiest time of year.

* * *

><p>The blue drawing room had always been the agreed upon location for the Christmas tree, but this year, with so many guests set to be in attendance, Lady Grantham had seen it more prudent to arrange for the celebrations to take place in the long gallery. The alterations would be minimal and hardly imposing on the staff, she'd informed Mrs. Hughes, glass of cocoa warming her dainty hand while her body lay lounging comfortably on a chaise after luncheon.<p>

"Of course, my lady," Mrs. Hughes managed between gritted teeth. "Not at all an imposition."

Edith had been present for the exchange, perched on the sofa, previously absorbed in the demanding task of staying awake during a boring afternoon. "Perhaps I could help…?" her quiet warble barely invaded the simmering battle of wills.

"Oh, I don't think that will be necessary, Edith. Mrs. Hughes can manage, I'm sure –and of course I'll be there to help supervise."

"But I'd like to. I've felt so useless lately and–"

"If you'd like something to do, darling, then be a dear and run 'round to the Dower House. We've been so neglectful lately with all the preparations for Christmas, and Granny must be positively aching for some company."

Edith doubted her grandmother ever ached for anything, least of all unsolicited visitors, but she acquiesced anyway, as was her wont, and in short order was seated across from her grandmother, small pastry in hand, feeling the ache in her torso diminish with the benefit of sustenance and a friendly ear.

"Edith, my dear girl. What brings you by?"

"Nothing, really. The house is in turmoil, you see, what with the new decorating schemes, and Mama thought I'd do better to visit you then toddle about underfoot." The words poured out, surprising Edith with how much easier they flowed when with her grandmother. Perhaps it was because of the Dowager's own proclivity towards speaking her mind. Perhaps it was because Granny actually listened to her.

"I'll ask you to dispense with that woebegone nonsense now that you're with me," Violet warned. "Now Edith, don't pull a face; it's extremely childish and highly unattractive. You may be pulling your hair out with tedium now, but mark my words, you'll be happier once the house is full of people again."

"Will I? Won't having more people around just grant me more opportunities to be ignored? Overlooked? Shoved into the background like a potted plant? Invisible as the wallpaper?"

Violet gave a wicked rap of her cane on the hardwood floor, a hairsbreadth away from doing the same to her granddaughter's head. What had she just said about despairing? Did the girl never listen to herself? It was all bemoaning and tedious self-pity – no wonder no one wanted to spend time with her. But those admonishments would never do, not with family, and instead she opted for a gentler approach.

"Come now, my girl, there'll be a few in attendance whom I know carry a vested interest in you," Violet said slyly, eliciting a shy smile – of course Edith had heard that Sir Anthony and Evelyn Napier would be of the party – "and even if nothing should come of it, there is always your brother-in-law."

Edith frowned. "Granny, Sir Richard is not my brother-in-law yet."

"Nor shall he ever be, if I have my way – but enough of that. I was not referring to that odious man. I meant the other one. The _Irish_ one."

"You mean _Branson_?" She pronounced his name as almost an oath. "The chauffeur?" Edith clarified, feeling she should be offended. "I can't see what I would have in common with him, besides knowing how to drive and caring for Sybil."

"You'd be surprised," Violet told her over the brim of her cup. "You're a writer, he's a writer –"

"I would hardly call myself a writer, Granny!"

"What of those little snippets you used to produce when you were younger? I remember a particularly intriguing essay, _Attributes of the First Daughter_, or some such nonsense."

"_The Plight of the Middle Child_," Edith mumbled, acutely aware of the butler shuffling about the sideboard.

"Yes, that's the one!" Edith looked mortified, and Violet wondered if she had pressed too far. "Well I'm sure you haven't retired your pen for all these years. You simply have chosen to no longer share them."

Event the hint of encouragement was enough for Edith to begin crawling back out of her shell, and Violet decided to give her one final push.

"And I for one think it is high time you did!"

* * *

><p>It was times like these that Robert Crawley truly felt the absence of his heir: the ladies dismissed while the gentleman loitered, and instead of solitude, he was forced to bear the company of his soon to be son-in-law.<p>

Sir Richard sipped at his port.

"After the wedding, I'd like to take another tour of the county, to see if there might be any more estates worth purchasing,"

Robert exhaled a breath of cigar smoke.

"You must have quite a bit of liquid funds to be able to do that."

"Yes, I do," he replied chuckling, a darker meaning outlining his words. "Some might say more money than God – and only slightly less powerful."

"I find that rather remarkable considering how many have gone belly up in recent years. The war was very hard for us all."

"Hard on some, perhaps, but kind to others," Sir Richard replied, slightly tilting his glass in a kind of half-toast.

Robert felt more than heard the underlying notes in Richard's words. They nibbled at the back of his mind, but he shoved them off before they had time to sink their teeth in. Stubbing out his cigar and with a last gulp of port he rose from his chair.

"I think we had best go in. It's the tree lighting tonight and they'll want to start soon," Robert suggested. He'd never been a curious man, and life was often much less complicated when one chose not to pursue a matter that was none of their concern.

* * *

><p>Anna gripped Daisy's shoulder with all the might of a career linen-bearer, barely restraining the giddy kitchen maid from outright twirling. But Daisy's excitement could not be contained by such paltry restraints for long, and it was only a few minutes before she managed to break free, squealing, "This is my favorite part of Christmas – the tree lighting!" with a clumsy pirouette.<p>

The staff was assembled at a respectful distance behind their superiors, partaking in the relaxed joviality and bickering that only comes with working with the same set of faces for too many years.

"And what part is your least favorite, I wonder?" Mrs. Patmore pondered aloud.

The question weighed down Daisy's antics with pause, a heavy contemplation that concluded with, "Maybe all the extra cooking? It's like I don't have even one minute without baking another pie or preparing another grand meal. And all them pheasants they bring down, filled up with buckshot, and I have to spend hours and hours plucking them out till me hands want to fall off."

"It wasn't one of those questions you're supposed to answer, Daisy – the type we like to call 'rhetorical'." Thomas punctuated his needling with a puff of the cheeks and a vacant burst of air that sailed out of his lips, belatedly realizing he wasn't actually smoking.

"Blowing bubbles for the children?" came O'Brien, and seeing rebuttal kindling in Thomas' eye, she hastened to add, "Don't bother answering – one of those 'rhetorical' types of questions."

"Well I agree with Daisy. I think it's a fine tradition, and I've always enjoyed it," Anna chimed, prompting a round of bland agreement from the rest of the faceless housemaids.

"It's nothing but a big nuisance and a waste of my time when I have precious little to give. As if I wasn't already done in with preparing a week's worth of dinners for a house full of people."

"Aw, Mrs. Patmore, don't be such a spoilsport! You can't dislike it as much as you say – no one can! Just look at the fine decorations, and all them pretty lights!"

And Daisy was far from exaggerating. The long gallery was a room transformed: windows lined with garlands of holly, their sills dotted with votives; colored paper chains strung up around the mouldings; the chandelier above dressed in ivy; and in the vortex of the swirl of red and green: a noble fir that stretched to the ceiling, dripping with colored glass, a spiral of unlit lights ascending to the gilded star of David at the top. It was charming and evocative, a sight that could not fail to bring inspiration to all.

To most.

"Trees are not meant to be indoors. It's an unassailable fact!" the Dowager was heard to decry. Stood at her grandmother's elbow, mesmerized by the abundance of leaves and berries, Lady Mary jolted at the pronouncement. As a rule she preferred to exude indifference to all things festive, but even she was incapable of stopping her pea-sized heart from fluttering.

"Perhaps you're right, but without the tree it wouldn't seem half as much like Christmas," Lady Mary put in mildly, as close to rhapsodizing as was possible for her.

From behind his daughter Lord Grantham extolled, "Well I think it looks magnificent. You've really outdone yourself this year, Cora."

"Thank you, darling," Cora said absently, busy arranging bodies into a makeshift semi-circle, eager to begin that most illustrious of all Downton Abbey traditions: the sing-a-long. "Now we really must begin before it gets too late. Edith?"

Edith gently stroked the keys of the piano and gave the pedals a few practice taps. The tinkling introduction of the familiar tune heralded the start of the singing, sharps and flats floating in the air and mingling together in discord. No one in the room had properly trained voices, Lady Mary perhaps having the most natural skill, but the tones were warm and not entirely unpleasant as they sang the first verse together

_The holly and the ivy, when they are both full grown,_

_Of all the trees that are in the wood, the holly bears the crown._

Lord and Lady Grantham presided, leading the choir of voices in spirit (if not with proficiency), an atonal blend of soprano and baritone. Cora noticed for the first time, in all their years of marriage, the disunity of their voices, and it disquieted her.

_Oh, the rising of the sun and the running of the deer,_

_The playing of the merry organ, sweet singing in the choir._

At the first chorus, two bodies sunk into the background. They were drawn together, like two lonely planets, the only ones with enough sense not to participate in such treacly madness.

"I knew there must be at least one rational person left in the room," Violet said. "I should have known it would be you."

Thomas smiled at the praise, feeling complimented despite himself.

_The holly bears a blossom as white as lily flower,_

_And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ to be our sweet savior_

The words were familiar enough to let her mind wander. One Christmas, well before the war, William had surprised her by slipping his sweaty palm into hers, cheeks aflame, and though last Christmas she'd pushed through the holiday as though William Mason had never existed, now Daisy thought of that moment, and smiled.

_The holly bears a berry as red as any blood,_

_And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ to do poor sinners good._

Ebony and ivory keys bent to her will, banging out the notes as they plodded through the carol. She both admired and envied the keyboard and their contrast of colors – familiar strains that echoed in the complexion and tresses of her elder sister – that would always be more strikingly beautiful than a flaming bob of curls.

_The holly bears a prickle as sharp as any thorn,_

_And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ on Christmas Day in the morn._

Anna doubled her volume – as loud as she could – to fill the empty space of his voice. With every step and every smile and every word his absence pierced her, but this night she was determined to be happy, because it wouldn't be long before she celebrated her first Christmas as his wife.

_The holly bears a bark as bitter as any gall,_

_And Mary bore sweet Jesus Christ for to redeem us all._

The last verse spilled sweetly from her lips, the songbird of the family, Lady Mary Crawley – soon to be Mary Carlisle.

Mary Carlisle.

Her song faltered. The words tasted awful.

In the fog of memory, she caught faint glimpses of a time when she could have married, and been happy, without changing her home or her name. Mary Crawley she is and Mary Crawley she could have remained, and the fact that she had ruined everything was perhaps the bitterest taste of all.

_Oh, the rising of the sun and the running of the deer,_

_The playing of the merry organ, sweet singing in the choir._

The last refrain reverberated through the hall. All were eager to witness the first usage of the new modern lights, recently arrived from London, and Lord Grantham, with exaggerated flair, reached over to flick on the switch. The tree alighted in soft electric glow to an anthem of awws and ooohs and a smattering of half-hearted applause. Some were giddy, some were lonely, some felt the sting of life stab painfully, but bathed in the warm hues of the illuminated tree, it was finally beginning to feel like Christmas.

* * *

><p><em>FYI I did do a modicum of research to make sure that electric tree lights were around by our time period, but that modicum did not extend to discovering the likelihood of<em> _them being used in a place like Downton_, _so if it is unbearably historically inaccurate I apologize._

_I'll also put a link in my profile for any who are interested and who haven't ever heard the carol _The Holly and the Ivy.

_Woot woot! 0.25 of the way there, you guys!_

_Again, thank you for all the lovely reviews. You are a batch of dear souls!_


	5. Day 5: Preparations

_Another large helping of thankfulness to AriadneO for her incredible support and wonderful editing!_

* * *

><p><strong>Day 5: Preparations<strong>

_Idle hands are the devil's instruments._

The phrase had been stored in an easily accessible pocket in her mother's mouth, whipped out whenever Beryl complained about the early hour, or how many potatoes she had to peel, or why, Ma, do we always have to be cooking, cooking, cooking?

Forty years later, she was grateful for the repetition, and her mother's stern but compassionate forbearance, for she never now gave any mind to the early hour (6 am was sleeping in compared to her time in the scullery) or how many potatoes she had to peel (none – that happy task was now apportioned to Daisy) or why she always had to be cooking ("had" was long replaced with "got"– cooking was more the breath in her lungs than a mere occupation).

Yes, Beryl Patmore lived a mostly content life, the only ripples disturbing the calm the outrageous notion that the Housekeeper should be the sole bearer of the store room key, the thousands of British graves sprinkled all over France entombing hero and coward alike, or when one of her dinners was being polluted by the new second footman's finger.

"Get your grubby paw out of that pot, Patrick!"

"My name's not Patrick!"

"I don't care what your name is! If you don't get that hand out of the stew, I'll chop it off and serve it for luncheon!"

The new footman snapped his hand back. He'd only wanted a taste, but for all Mrs. Patmore was an intimidating woman, the heavy cleaver clenched in her hand was yet more so, and he scurried away, off to cause trouble somewhere else no doubt.

Mrs. Patmore wondered what it was about footmen that made at least three-quarters of them intolerable, deciding at last that it must be that the whole lot of them were entirely too idle.

* * *

><p>Bates scanned the letter again, checking the missive for errors.<p>

_Mr. Crawley-_

_My former lawyer and your former colleague, Mr. James Carter, has sent me several letters demanding his final payment, which I have repeatedly refused to give due to his mishandling of my case. I know I have trespassed far too much on your kindness already, but I must do so one last time. Please see Mr. Carter and explain to him that no further payment will be forthcoming, for I believe he would be much more willing to listen to you than to me._

_Sincerely,_

_Mr. John Bates_

It would do; it _must_ do. Mr. Crawley was his last recourse on the matter, and with the staggering legal fees, Bates had no money left to squander. _Not even on the price for postage_, he mused ruefully, sealing the letter whose delivery would be entrusted to the care of his current, capable lawyer.

That man would be arriving any minute, ready to debrief his client about the state of the trial and prepare him for his upcoming testimony, and as Bates sat waiting in the visiting room, he squared out his shoulders and mentally prepared himself for the force of the nature that was Arthur Bellamy: Solicitor at Law.

"Bates, Bates, Bates! My good man!" Bellamy cried upon entering, enthusiasm vibrating at the surface, his briefcase arching through the air to land on the small table between them with a cracking thud.

"Not so much good as lucky," Bates corrected, a small, submissive smile already on his lips. "I really can't thank you enough for all you've done, much more than a man like me deserves and –"

"Stop, stop, stop!" Bellamy ordered. "Not another word! I forbid you from uttering even one more syllable!" The thick finger pointed a centimeter from his nose would have silenced most men, but John Bates could never be deterred when there was humility to be had.

"Please, Mr. Bellamy, you must allow me to express how grateful I am for your tireless efforts to prove my innocence, and –" A serious growl put an end to the groveling.

"Are you deaf, man? I refuse to listen to even one more minute of your sniveling!" Bellamy all but exploded. "Do you know what I'm going to do if I hear another word out of that mouth, hmm? I'm going to take one of those loose ceiling tiles and beat you over the head with it!"

Bellamy glowered, daring to be defied. Bates was stubborn, but not suicidal, and took the seat indicated by his lawyer's beefy hand.

"Now," Bellamy started, removing his coat, "let's debrief, shall we? Opening arguments were…well they certainly could have been worse. And the prosecution will begin your cross-examination fairly soon, so we'd best get a move on with our preparations." He commanded a moment of silence, closing his eyes and attempting to channel that strange creature known as the prosecuting attorney.

"Mr. Bates, please describe your relationship with the late Mrs. Bates," Bellamy asked with exaggerated menace.

"We married young," Bates began, all mellow tones and far-away glances. "Both naïve, both foolish. I was in the army, you see, looking for adventure, and Vera… Vera was just a girl looking for a way out of her small Irish town. We were happy, for a time," he paused then, features darkening. "But after the war I was…distraught. There were arguments, many of them, and I didn't treat her as she deserved –"

"_Wrong_!" Bellamy snapped, an unsprung coil. "Wrong, wrong, wrong! Good God, man, do you _want_ to get sent to prison? Try again, this time with perhaps a little less guilt thrown in, hmm?"

They went through several iterations before Bellamy was satisfied that Bates' testimony wouldn't send him to the gallows on the spot, and he was just making to leave when Bates stopped him with a final, painfully self-effacing exposition.

That Arthur Bellamy was exasperated would be putting it mildly.

"Quiet, quiet, quiet I say! I demand quiet! You are absolutely the most insufferable client I have _ever_ worked for! At this moment – at this very moment – I can barely tolerate the sight of your face! I don't know how _any_ of your wives _ever_ put up with you!"

Bates could only smile at that. He thought of his Anna, of her beauty and poise, and unwavering strength and support. Of all the things he didn't deserve, Mrs. Anna Bates was at the top of the list. And it was for her sake, not for his, that he would do all he could to prove his innocence.

* * *

><p>"And is everything ready for Ethel's arrival?" Lady Grantham asked.<p>

"Yes, my lady. The empty room next to Anna's has been prepared, and one of the cribs from storage has been dusted off and set up for wee Charlie."

"Oh, good. I know it's quite unorthodox, but I can hardly sleep with the thought of that poor girl and her child all alone at Christmas."

"Of course, my lady. No one here will fault you for generosity," Mrs. Hughes told her mistress, unspoken worry for the former housemaid and her child weighing down her mind, and a voice inside whispering that she'd not been able to get much sleep either.

In another wing of the house, a much grander room than the one allotted for Ethel was being prepared. Two more tucks and a hefty pat and Anna was finished making up Lady Sybil's bed.

"It'll be awkward, don't you think? Having Mr. Branson staying at the house, sharing a room with Lady Sybil?"

Lily continued dusting the armoire, giving her non-verbal assent.

"Course I suppose she's not Lady Sybil anymore, not really. I wonder what she'd like to be called? Mrs. Branson, I'm sure. Why any woman wouldn't want to bear her married name with pride is beyond me."

Lily silently agreed with Anna's logic while smoothing out the corners of the duvet.

"But I still don't know what she was thinking, giving up her whole world like that. I suppose that's love for you – like a disease – and once you've got it there's no cure, no antidote. You just got to learn to bear it, as best you can."

Lily coughed, an affirmation if Anna ever heard one.

It was rather nice talking with Lily, Anna decided. It was a lot like talking to yourself, except you didn't feel as stupid.

"At any rate, I'm sure it'll be awkward, for him and for everyone else." When no answer was forthcoming, Anna paused in her duties, a crease folding neatly into her brow. Lily suddenly seemed strangely quiet. Far too quiet.

"Lily, are you all right?" Anna asked, turning around to see Lily curled into a fetal position on the floor, gripping her stomach in agony. She was at her side in a thrice, and in fascinating horror watched as Lily's mouth slowly opened to utter with a single, struggling breath:

"No."

* * *

><p>What started as a simple question over what to pack had devolved into the charged standoff of willpower surging between mother and son.<p>

"And what of Mary?" she demanded.

A ratty toy dog – his "charm", his weakness, his link to a future that might have been – was tossed onto the pile of jackets and ties that lay strewn beside him on the bed.

He looked away.

"She's engaged."

"Engaged, yes – not married." Abruptly he stood, annoyance – almost distress – manifest.

"I'm not quite sure what you want me to say, Mother."

"I only want you to say what you feel," she answered. "If you still love her, then tell her. Unless you're content making yourselves miserable forever."

For a moment Matthew covered his eyes, rubbing the knots away, and when he removed his hand, said, "I wish it were that simple. Everything's become so tangled, and I can see very clearly now that I was the one who held the strings." In his tone lived regret. His mother saw within the broken man the child she had borne and made to comfort him.

"Oh, Matthew. My dear son – were you perfectly faultless in the matter? No, of course not. But in life one will make mistakes, sometimes of the most grievous kind, and it is up to those who love us to forgive us."

"I'm not sure Mary still loves me; I'm not sure how she could," he confessed, a palpable remorse that removed any doubt in Isobel's mind as to the nature of her son's feelings for Lady Mary Crawley. She thought of Mary's caution, of her friendliness towards Lavinia, the tightlipped smiles and unvoiced longing that she wore around her like a string of beads.

"Do you know, Matthew, at times you can be as thick as your father," was the last thing she said before leaving his room. Matthew was left alone to his demons, though of late they'd become more and more docile, and he sat back down on his bed, to ponder once again.

* * *

><p>In his youth, Sir Anthony would have guffawed at the notion that twenty years hence he would be celebrating the pre-season in one of his many over-sized rooms, seated on an overstuffed armchair before a roaring fire, and swirling brandy in a crystal goblet like some villain in a Victorian novel.<p>

Maud would have laughed at his lapse into reclusiveness, which in turn would have made him laugh. He thought of the last person who had made him laugh: a young girl who enjoyed a good concert and the questionable benefit of his company, with a quirky sense of humor who never much got the chance to display it.

That girl was more a woman now, for it had been five years since he last saw Lady Edith Crawley. The war had come, the war had gone, and they had both survived it.

Brown liquid lapped at the sides of the cup as he took a final sip. He could not know what would come of his visit to Downton, but what he did know was that he desperately wanted to laugh again.

* * *

><p>Like Neptune's guardian the gulls circled overhead, their cries a herald for the man-made tamer of the sea, great slices of ocean licking at the ship's prow. Sybil leant over the railing, breathed in the salty aroma of the violent waves – moving mountains capped with the snowy white of foam and spray – and promptly lost her lunch.<p>

The Irish Sea was a beautiful beast, she mused. Not unlike the man she had chosen to marry, both of them endowed with the innate ability to leave her besotted and sickened in turns.

"Feeling better?" one of the beasts asked.

Sybil took a steadying swallow of air and smiled. "Yes, rather," she said assuredly, quickly following it with a queasy sway and an uncertain "A little," and finally ending the exchange with a hurried "Not at all!" and a return to her previous state halfway over the side of the vessel.

With time, the turbulence eased and the contents of her stomach sufficiently emptied, and Sybil began to feel herself again. She rested her head against his shoulder, a steady support on the dizzying boat ride, and sought to remove her thoughts from anything involving the wobbling deck beneath her feet.

She tilted up her head to Branson's profile, arriving at the solution: Cars. Yes, cars. Cars that drive on land.

"Did you ever look into that mysterious motor company?" she asked out of seemingly nowhere.

Branson was by now used to the non-sequiturs associated with married life. "I've done a small bit of groundwork," he said. "It seems the company was formed five years ago, and they have some holdings out in Leeds."

"Leeds?" she brightened, her pallor waning. "That's only forty miles away from Downton – close enough for a day trip, even!"

"I'm not sure your family would like us taking a day trip in the middle of their holiday, and they'll have enough to be upset about once we tell them the news."

"Nonsense. I should think they'd be happy for us. Why shouldn't they?"

The wind blew away his dissembling non-answer, along with several strands of his lady's hair. Without the precise pinning of a lady's maid, her long curls easily escaped the braid to flounder unchecked about her head, wild wisps that Branson knew from experience could tickle at his nose wickedly. But it didn't stop him from resting his chin over her thick mane, or occasionally planting a kiss at the top of her head.

* * *

><p>Evelyn was excited, even if his father could not be. In truth, Evelyn often had trouble discerning the Viscount's opinion, a conversation with him bearing as much stimulating discourse as with a stone wall.<p>

Convalescing at Downton had not been a pleasant experience for Evelyn, though it was more the recovery than the location. The chemical burns still tingled at times, even years after the cloud of yellow had left their permanent mark on his arms and legs.

While there, the three daughters had all tended to him with varying degrees of interest or neglect, and long days with little to do gave him ample time to observe them. In his flightier moments he likened them to eggs: Lady Mary hardboiled, Lady Edith poached, and Lady Sybil had the decided honor of being called scrambled. They were all good girls, however, and he briefly considered which one he was most looking forward to becoming reacquainted. He was unprepared for the answer:

Lady Edith Crawley.

The revelation was surprising, but not unpleasant.

* * *

><p>Crawling into bed, easing into its familiar comfort, Edith settled down for the night, novel in hand. Three chapters in and the book was tossed aside, her concentration wandering too far from the happy landscape of drawing room hijinks to continue any further.<p>

Violet Crawley was a woman not to be ignored, even by those well acquainted with her determined acumen, and the admonitions of the day before revolved in Edith's mind, gratifying her with the evidence of regard, vexing her with the presumption of omniscience.

Yet Granny had been right, of course. Hollow days of loneliness and tearful nights bemoaning her plight had driven Edith to proclaim her voice in the only way that seemed allowed: the inaudible medium of paper and pen.

A locked drawer in her writing desk housed the contraband. The key for this particular lock had not been fitted into the hole for some seven years, not since the mocking laughter of Mary had shredded her desire to pieces, but she inserted it now, listened to the clunk of the mechanism as it shifted, and opened the small square of wood that divided her hand from the most cherished of her accomplishments.

By the second hour of morn she had read through them all, and by the fourth hour, she had added five more pages to the collection.

* * *

><p><em>Just a few things:<em>

_I know writer!Edith is somewhat of a trope in the fandom, and since this fic is 80% fan-pandering anyway, I just decided to roll with it!_

_Also I have an unnatural obsession with Lily the housemaid, which is why she features somewhat prominently relative to her presence on the show. _

_Thanks so much for reading! Next chapter is the halfway mark, and when everyone finally convenes at DA!_


	6. Day 6: Invasions

_Fair warning: this is a pretty long one, and also contains quite a bit of silliness, and that silliness mostly takes the form of Branson torture (But I only do it because I love him so much – those who know me will attest to that!). I will direct your attention to the author notes from ch 1, where I warned you all not to take this fic too seriously._

* * *

><p><strong>Day 6: Invasions<strong>

Ethel was the first to arrive.

She crept in early, before the first of the servants would be up, and was waiting in the hall when Daisy came down to start the fires. The young mother claimed to have come up the night before and stayed at a room in the village, and although Daisy wasn't always a sharp one, she had her doubts about the story when she felt the icy touch of Ethel's hand and beheld the shivering toddler in her arms.

Mrs. Hughes was called for at once. The housekeeper took one look at the freezing, exhausted family, wrapped them each in a thick woolen blanket, forced a mug of hot cider into one hand and a glass of warm milk in the other, and clucked them both straightaway to bed.

Charlie would sleep, brown curls mussed by the softest mattress his head had ever known, but Ethel was left to wakefulness and private reflections, until Anna came in to welcome her.

"How have things been for you?" Anna asked.

"All right, I suppose. I'm not starving or nothing like it, but it could be better. I take in some washing and mending from some local families, but it'd be nice to have a real, steady job again." They were very different sentiments than those Ethel had voiced when she had first arrived at Downton. Anna noted the change and remarked upon it.

"Motherhood will change you," Ethel replied. "I used to want a high life; fame and fortune and all that. Thought I deserved it, somehow." Her gaze passed over the crib to nestle on the sleeping child. "Now all I want is a good life for Charlie, one that also includes his mother. And if there's a way then I'll find it."

She was rumpled and worn, but still a fighter, lit underneath with a fire that refused to be snuffed, except now it was fueled with a more selfless kindling. Anna felt it burn at her own selfishness, at the troubles which had consumed her thoughts and left precious little room for the suffering of others. She could spare a few for Ethel now.

"If there is a way, Ethel, then we'll all be here to help you. I promise."

And they would be more than empty words, Anna resolved, but she had to leave Ethel then and begin the first in her long string of duties. She descended down the spiral steps that led to the bottom floor, passing by the silver cupboard in perfect time to eavesdrop on the tail end of an exchange between the butler and housekeeper.

"How is Lily doing?" Carson asked, mid-polish.

"About the same. Dr. Clarkson is with her now. And there's another two maids down, plus a footman besides," Mrs. Hughes answered, flustered in spirit if not in voice.

"Which one?"

Intense concentration would normally be classed as a difficult action to convey physically, but Mrs. Hughes made an admirable effort, before giving up and settling with, "The second one."

"Ah," he replied, satisfied. "We'll have to have Thomas to help with the serving, then. He won't like it, but I daresay no one cares much about what he likes or doesn't like," Carson said with an archness in his voice that forced Anna to stick a fist in her mouth, quickly smothering her giggles before she exposed herself.

* * *

><p>After breakfast, the rest began to trickle in.<p>

Lady Rosamund first, her retinue including not less than eight trunks of clothes, ten hat boxes, and a rather stunning lady's maid.

"A bit much for a one week stay," O'Brien condemned between stitches. "What does she need it all for? Getting trussed up like Sunday roast when all she'll be doing is eating dinner with the family?"

"Some prefer to look good no matter who they dine with."

Deep set eyes of amber and a crown of flaxen curls made Marigold Shore worthy of her namesake. She had never set foot in a household where she hadn't dominated, and had no intention of allowing Downton Abbey to become the first. It was unfortunate, then, that she'd decided to start her attack by crossing swords with Miss Sarah O'Brien.

"And just who might you be, to make any of us give a farthing about what you think?" O'Brien challenged from her seat, deft fingers not skipping even a single stitch.

"I'm Marigold Shore. Lady's maid to Lady Rosamund Painswick," she announced, garbed in an upturned chin and haughty glow, as though informing them Mother Mary herself had just stepped down for a visit from on high.

"You're a bit of a young thing to be a lady's maid. Can't be at all very good, I'd wager. How long have you held the post?"

"First: I am a bit of a young thing. Second," and this with a caress to her smooth, unblemished cheek, "not nearly as long as you have, obviously." Her presence was beginning to be felt, drawing about a congregation to survey the interesting newcomer.

"I'm Daisy," an eager face bounded up from the crowd, outstretched palm at the ready. "One of the kitchen maids."

"Thanks for warning me. I almost shook that hand," Marigold drawled, pouring herself into the open chair next to O'Brien. "Don't you folks have any tea things about? I'm famished." Her gaze flicked to a nearby lad – a footman, going by his livery – who was all but eating her with his eyes. "You there, footman, fetch me something to eat."

"We don't work that way down here," O'Brien fairly seethed. "If you want tea, you go and get it yourself."

"I haven't fetched my own tea since I first tied up the stings on Lady Holland's corset, and I'm not going to start now. I'm sure you won't mind bringing me a cuppa," she said, rising, and fiddling with the new footman's collar till he audibly gulped.

"I – that is…of course I can fetch it for you, Miss Shore."

Gathering up her button box, O'Brien narrowed her gaze at the upstart, annoyed but hardly thwarted, and sought the succor of a smoky haze in the fresh winter air. Marigold sipped her tea and nibbled a biscuit, deciding that it had been a splendid beginning to her reign, while upstairs in the drawing room, her mistress had her own dominance to assert.

"I don't care what you think about Hepworth, Mama. Blame me if you like, but I'm not at all ashamed of carrying on a _romance_ at my age – and I think he suits me."

"Of course I don't blame you. I'd just as soon be driven to chasing after penniless bachelors of a certain age as well if all I did was sit at home everyday, taking in morning callers and divulging secrets to the tapestry."

Rosamund graciously ignored the low blow to herself, but could not overlook the one to her suitor.

"Lord Hepworth is not penniless. I have it on good authority that he is quite well off and that his estate is not in the least encumbered."

"Oh, Rosamund. I shudder at the thought of your "good authorities." Be on your guard, my girl. Lord Hepworth is a predator, trying to take you for all you've got."

Dissuasion was a word not to be had in Rosamund's vocabulary. She sipped her tea, resolute.

"You know how I feel about taking orders from anyone, least of all you."

Violet took her own sip, amused rather than daunted. Really, the girl may be stubborn, but where did she think she got it from?

"Then it's fortuitous that I've never needed anyone to actually take my orders, least of all you, for me to have my own way."

* * *

><p>Next in line and in quick succession were the bachelors, their arrivals heralded by the last footman standing.<p>

"_Sir Anthony Strallan."_

"_Viscount Brankson – and the Honorable Evelyn Napier."_

"_Lord Hepworth."_

"This drawing room is getting more and more eligible with every passing minute," Rosamund conferred to her niece, though not nearly quiet enough for Edith's comfort, who smiled shyly at the visitors and hoped her cheeks hadn't quite yet reached the same shade as her hair.

* * *

><p>The Crawleys arrived by late afternoon.<p>

They came up by train, and along the way mother observed son, taking in the small glimmer in Matthew's eyes and the minute twitch that played about the corners of his mouth: anticipation. His mood had steadily improved during the journey, but Isobel remained suspect. She had no faith in the constancy of his spirits, although she preferred them to be fickle than stuck in the mire of desolation.

The pair were pounced upon in the foyer, everyone eager to reestablish acquaintance, and everyone quickly becoming scarce when Mary and Matthew greeted one another.

"Hello, Mary."

"Matthew. It's so good to see you – and Cousin Isobel, of course."

"I'm always pleased to see you. You look well."

Common courtesies, she reminded herself, nothing to fawn over. His final parting eight months ago gave her strength for indifference. There was no need to censor her words or spirit.

_Let's accept that this is the end._

It made things easier, somehow.

"Thank you. I would return the compliment, but six hours on a train never leaves anyone with looks enough to be called "well", and you know I'm incapable of empty flattery." It was the first time in eight months that the twitch about his mouth became a permanent curve, though Mary could not know how long in coming it was.

"I would expect no less from you," he said.

A tiny morsel of their old way, and she all but devoured it. It had an unbalancing flavor, but she recalled again their ending, and the new beginning that awaited her. It steadied her enough to steer towards calmer waters.

"How are things in Manchester?" she asked.

"Tolerably well. I've actually been working at my old practice. It's all rather strange, really, working in an office everyday after – well, after everything," Matthew replied, shades of bomb blasts and air raids cooling his words.

"Of course. I imagine everything must feel strange coming back to a world that's been turned upside down."

"Not everything. Being here, with –" he quickly caught himself, re-measured his reply, and continued with "– at Downton; being here at Downton, I think I could almost feel like my old self again."

"Yes, I know, it –" she was cut off by a voice descending from the staircase. Sir Richard Carlisle was approaching.

"Mr. Crawley. So good to see you," he said. Matthew registered shock at his arrival, perhaps his very existence, for there was a brief moment when he had forgotten that Mary belonged to another. "Lady Grantham says dinner won't be long, now. Come, Mary, shall we leave your cousins to settle in?"

"Yes, of course," Mary agreed. She took his arm and left with him. From halfway up the stairs Isobel saw their departure, glanced over to see how Matthew fared, and was troubled by the tempest she saw gathering there.

* * *

><p>The Bransons were the last to arrive, having had the farthest to travel, and yet these last few steps would be the most harrowing by far. Branson eyed the front door warily.<p>

"Maybe I can go in through the back."

"Oh, can you? And perhaps you'd like to eat in the hall, or sleep in the garage?"

"…Can I?"

Things didn't improve for Branson once he mustered the courage to step over the threshold ("Look, Sybil! I did it!" – "Yes, walking through a door. Your mother will be so proud."). Alone in her old room, he felt marginally safer, till a knock on the door sent the hairs on his nape levitating.

It was only Thomas, but the bundle in the valet's arms justified his fears. Branson eyed the clothing warily.

"This is for you, sir –"

"– you don't have to call me 'sir', Thomas –"

"– and I just wanted to assure you that the pants have already been hemmed up for a man of your…stature." Branson's features could only aspire towards menacing, but they made their best endeavor, and even broke the barrier from mostly harmless to moderately perturbed.

"…you didn't have to mention that," he said flatly, shutting the door, but not quickly enough to keep Thomas from overhearing:

"Oh, Tom, being short is nothing to be ashamed of."

"I'm not short! I'm just…not tall…" but the rest went unheard, the last of his words being drowned out by dinner gong.

* * *

><p>"I've never heard of this soup before," the new first footman – Harry, he was tolerably sure – said before sticking a finger in to sneak a taste. It was a common yet closely guarded practice among footman, so Thomas paid no mind.<p>

"Something new," he answered. "Popular in Paris, that's what Mrs. Patmore said."

"It tastes a bit strange. Do they really like the stuff?"

"Doesn't matter if they like it. It's fashionable so they'll eat it. Now get your gloves back on and let's take them up."

* * *

><p>Dinners such as these always began properly enough. The numbers weren't quite even, but erred on the side of masculinity (which was more something to be rejoiced over than lamented in these post-war times), and Lady Grantham had made do. She led the elegant dance of dinner-talk decorum with learned finesse: Turn to the right, fifteen minutes of pleasantries. Turn to the left and fifteen more of the same. Back and forth, back and forth, like a game of table tennis, only slightly more mindless and not nearly as fun.<p>

The prospected tedium at being forced to speak to the same two people through an eight course dinner would have daunted those less versed in the tomes of meaningless conversation, but Lady Grantham had been considerate, and had placed Tom Branson with strategic foresight.

On one side sat his wife, whom he never tired of "talking" to, and on the other her elder sister, who would barely deign to acknowledged him, much less favor him with anything requiring the use of her vocal cords. But there was a small snag in the Countess' plan: Sir Richard, sat on the other side of his beloved, had compunctions about etiquette that changed with the weather and, with his usual fickleness, decided to overlook them now.

"So Mr. Branson," he asked over his fiancé's head, "I hear your latest article has caused quite a stir in Dublin. What was it about?" The query had the duel design of easing discomfort and introducing a topic that tangentially included himself, but had the unforeseen side effect of rendering Lady Mary incapable of eating her soup at a volume less than a mortar blast.

"It concerned the –"

_CLANK_

"– first general election –"

_CLUNK_

"– in Ireland and what –"

_CLACK_

"– it might mean for Republicans," Branson's explanation ended, succinct and unheard, though Sir Richard had just managed to catch the last part about the penguins. His ears had made a tremendous effort and still bore a fraction of interest in hearing the rest of the matter, but he knew better than to renew any topic that threatened to open his almost brother-in-law's mouth.

And though so pleasantly situated at his first upstairs' dinner at Downton Abbey, Branson was still inexplicably ill at ease, his body stiff enough to double as a snow sled.

"Just relax," a low voice whispered, tickling his ear, his other ear ringing with the thunderous explosion of Lord Grantham's sudden fit of throat-clearing. Branson looked up at the Lordly eyes – three seats away and aiming to skewer him with paternal dudgeon – back down to the strange, milky brew set in the bowl before him, and vainly tried to heed his wife's command.

_She's right. There's nothing to be afraid of. It's only soup, after all. You just eat it with a spoon – one of these_ five_ spoons._

While Branson did battle with the cutlery, at the other end of the table Rosumand was exultant in victory.

"I shall be forever grateful that you decided to seat us at the well-bred end of the table, though why you ever allowed _him_ back into the house I'll never guess," she declared to her hostess, feathers ruffling (quite literally) with the strength of her snobbery. Cora eyed Rosamund's unfortunate gown ruefully, inwardly weeping at the number of ostriches that had to die to create such a monstrosity.

Not far from Aunt and Mother, Edith was enmeshed in a battle of her own, assailed by that heretofore-unknown enemy: attention. It was a sneaky foe, she'd come to find, easily maiming her long-term ally of self-pity, plundering her bunker of woebegone meditation. Time that would once have dragged now veritably flew by. In one shake of a lamb's tail they were already on the fish course, with two they'd finished the meat, and before she knew it, my, was it already time for dessert?

Sir Anthony plied and poked his pudding, like a beekeeper harvesting honey, in trepidation.

"Don't worry, Sir Anthony. I promise you – it's completely safe."

"Forgive me, Lady Edith. It's not my intention to be rude, but once bitten, twice shy, as they say."

"Well then let me assure you," she said, plunging her fork first into his dish and then into her mouth, surprising herself with her turn at playing temptress (is this what it felt like to be Sybil?). "Hmmm, yes," she savored the bite. "Sweet, tart, and not a grain of salt to be had," she murmured, shocking herself with her turn at coy playfulness (is this what it felt like to be Mary?).

From the foot of the table, Lady Grantham spied her middle daughter's antics and approved. Smears of reddish filling and blobs of whipped cream, the last remnants of dessert, were all that remained on the majority of plates. She was pleased to have pulled off this first, trying dinner with as little drama as possible, but there was still one request, from her darling youngest, that she must discharge before dismissing the guests to their own devices.

"Sybil, darling, what was that you were saying earlier about having some news to share with everyone?"

"Yes, Tom and I do have some news – some very _happy_ news."

A beat of silence – followed by a surplus of simultaneous exclamations.

"_Please God, no!"_

"_Good Lord, tell me your not –!"_

"_Anything. Anything but that!"_

It was a tidal wave of fear that may well have washed away any semblance left of a proper dinner, but for the lilting voice that rose above the furor, proclaiming in triumph that, "Sybil's going to be a doctor!"

A confused – but mostly relieved – silence prevailed.

"What Tom means," Sybil clarified "is that there's a medical school in Dublin, and now that they've begun accepting women, I'm going to apply."

At the head of the table, Lord Grantham half-rose, partially livid.

"But how can you afford it? How can you possibly hope to provide for her tuition fees?" Lord Grantham's questions were reasonable, though his tone was not, thus ensuring that the entire table would be treated to the not uncommon sight of Branson Bristling.

"With respect, my lord, you seem to think that we can only afford tuition fees if we were living in some kind of version of Downton Abbey, which if that were the case then Sybil would not have married me!"

"What Tom means," Sybil clarified, "is that there's a good chance I can get a scholarship from the school, and Tom's got a second job on the weekends at a garage, and there's always the possibility of taking out a small loan if we need to."

"Well there you have it," championed Mrs. Crawley, the voice of eternal busy-bodying. "They have everything completely worked out, and I think there's no need to harp on them any further. Indeed we should be commending them for taking this brave step in the advancement of women."

"Well, not _quite_ everything is worked out," Sybil amended. "I'll need a letter of reference from an established doctor. I was hoping to get one from Dr. Clarkson while I was here, as I'm not well acquainted with those I work with now."

Even a hint of a good deed that needed fulfilling was enough for Isobel Crawley.

"Say no more, Sybil dear, you shall leave it all up to me. I'll go by the hospital tomorrow, explain your situation, and have your recommendations sent to the school immediately. Just give me the name and address of the university after dinner and I'll –"

"That's very generous, Cousin Isobel, but I really think it would be best if I–"

"Really, Sybil, I'd be happy to do it. As you were once a volunteer at a hospital that I happen to preside over as co-chairwoman, I consider it almost my duty to procure you the recommendation. And of course I'm already on very good terms with Richard."

To her left, Isobel felt a puff of warmth, the storm clouds lifting just long enough from over Matthew's chair for him to register his mother's comment. Through the sliver of light amidst the gloom he stared at her as though she had just hatched out of an egg.

"Richard?" he repeated in forced undertone. "And just how long has Dr. Clarkson been '_Richard_?'"

"Hush, Matthew, not at the dinner table," Isobel warned from behind her wineglass.

Things were devolving; the guests were getting restless. Cora considered the disorder that had once been a carefully maintained dinner party, her maniacal smile and glassy gaze proclaiming it either a complete success or an unmitigated disaster. Either way she would declare it officially over, rising from her chair with a short and sweet pronouncement of closure.

The ladies rose, the gentlemen rose, and the former repaired to the drawing rom.

* * *

><p>It was not necessarily "his" window, but it held a particular fondness for him: it was on one sunny afternoon, skies bright and cloudless – impossibly blue – and yet still paling in comparison to the shine that radiated from her face and the soft azure hues beaming off the legs of a shocking new frock. He'd been an outsider then, slyly peeking in, not even daring to imagine he could one day be on the inside, looking out of that very same window, and seriously contemplating throwing himself through it.<p>

His masochistic impulses were interrupted by a voice at his elbow.

"Care for a cordial, sir?" Thomas very politely asked, though by Branson's reaction he may as well have boiled the refreshment and thrown it in his face.

"Come off it, Thomas. You don't have to call me 'sir,' or serve me anything."

"On the contrary, Mr. Branson, I think I do. It's my job, you see, my plight as one of the common workers, to serve those of the institutional establishment."

Thomas was swept away by a blast of hot, indignant air, and the temporary footman moved onwards, working the room with an unflappable poise that barely held the swagger at bay. Let them say what they would about him "needing a _hand_" or being "grateful for the _hand_ that fate had dealt"– he knew he looked good.

Normally Thomas preferred to travel counter clockwise in a transcendent, vaguely rebellious attempt at annoying his father, which would have made his next targets Lady Edith and Sir Anthony who were tittering and simpering over something that was neither funny nor clever – something involving Haydn and Bach, Thomas just overheard – when from his periphery he caught sight of Mr. Napier detaching himself from the cleft of old dowds in the corner, approaching the pair, completing the trifecta of blandness.

More titters, more simpers, more tedious talk, only now they were throwing in references to Trollope and other equally yawn inducing novelists. Thomas re-eyed the over-fifty crowd: Lady Rosamund and her supposed "suitor," chaperoned by the indomitable Dowager, all coolly observed by Mrs. Crawley, who had given up any hope for a decent conversation with the resolutely taciturn Viscount. Sparks were zipping betwixt the arched eyebrows and clever repartee, and Thomas chose to honor his father just this once. Clockwise it was.

He proffered first a drink to the matriarch of all matriarchs.

"Back to footman, I see?" the Dowager asked.

"Just for tonight, milady. The new second footman is ill, so I've been covering for him."

"I think them nothing but trouble, the pair of them. I said so to his Lordship. 'Nothing but a pair of village riffraff,' I told him. But would he listen?"

"They don't seem all bad, milady. A bit rough around, but Mr. Carson will have them smoothed out before long."

"I wouldn't be so sure, Thomas. I've lived in the village long enough to know its foibles and those that engage in them." It was said rather disdainfully, but the intrigue underlying the words involuntarily lifted one of his eyebrows.

"Downton Village doesn't seem quite the type of place for anything I would call 'foibles', if you don't mind my saying milady." She chuckled.

"You'd be surprised was goes on in Drury Lane," she said. "Behind the barbershop. Wednesday nights."

Thomas covered his confusion with a bow, and went on to the next crowd waiting to be served. Buried within the Dowager's general strictures had been quite a few specifics, and he wasn't quite sure what to make of them.

* * *

><p>Slouching in his chair as much as was gentlemanly possible, Robert realized he hadn't felt this comfortable since before the war.<p>

There were only three of them left, Branson having been the first to leave. He took one glance at the array of fine cigars and expensive port (no doubt squeezed from the very pores of his kinsman), and, with a mix of bewilderment and disgust struggling for dominance on his socialist mien, left the room without a word.

Lord Hepworth was quick to follow.

"That fellow has the right idea. Mustn't leave the ladies to themselves," he enthused, emitting a high-pitched noise that Robert thought just may have been a giggle. He would laugh at the conjecture later. Surely no gentleman ever giggled.

The other three left not too far after, leaving only himself, Sir Richard (unfortunate, but could hardly be helped) and Matthew.

_Dear_ Matthew.

As much a son as an heir to him, and Robert was not ashamed at the admission. They spoke of Manchester, the adjustments in going back to his old practice, of the improvements at Downton that had recommenced now that the war had ended. Sir Richard had little input, but when the subject of the impending New Year arose, he made his most generous contribution.

"Will you and your mother come up for the wedding, Mr. Crawley?"

Mr. Crawley took a sip of port and leveled his gaze at the future husband of Lady Mary Crawley.

"We wouldn't dream of missing it."

* * *

><p>The three stragglers blew in on cloud of cigar smoke and unvoiced sentiments. Freed from the constraints of seating arrangements, Matthew naturally gravitated to her, but stopped halfway – an obstruction was blocking the force of the pull – and loitered near the punch bowl.<p>

"Dear Matthew, it's so good to see you and Isobel again," Lady Grantham said, pouring herself a cup.

"Yes, thank you. It's good to be back," he replied, distracted. Cora glanced in the direction of his gaze.

"Sir Richard's monopolizing poor Mary again." She sent him a conspiratorial smile. "Don't worry – I'll divert his attention elsewhere."

He trailed after his hostess, faint protest on his lips, and watched Cora whisper something smilingly to the newspaper baron and drag him away. Mary's breath let out at the departure, the grip on the stem of her glass imperceptibly loosening. The cup was halfway to her lips when she noticed Matthew's presence nearby.

"Alone at last," he called – a greeting, an observation; in his heart, a desire met.

"Are we? And here I thought we were standing in a room overflowing with people," she replied, not unkindly, but with challenge in her smile.

"Very well," Matthew accepted, smiling in return. _I'll play._

They were too far apart – any discourse would require the use of a volume that would just touch upon straining. He closed half the gap between them, his expression shedding that tense countenance of a clock too tightly wound, loosening, as if letting out his tie and shrugging off his coat.

"We may not be alone in the physical sense of the word, but can we not be alone in spirit?"

She looked down into the glass. "When words can still be overheard and actions observed?" Then bringing her eyes up to meet his, answered, "I would say not. Now before you reply, remember: I have far greater experience than you in living in a glass house."

"But we stand apart – our words are not heard clearly and so our actions have no context."

"That would only make us misinterpreted, not alone."

"But to be misinterpreted, misunderstood, isn't that what it truly means to be alone in this world?" She grew quiet and took a withdrawn sip. Matthew craved for his own glass to hide behind, but rallied with, "Forgive me. Since the war, I've grown far too philosophical. Mother informs me regularly that it's quiet tiresome."

"Don't apologize. I rather like it," she said, smiling. "And yes, I would agree. To be misunderstood is to be alone, and yet we are social creatures and left searching for that one person who may – and now you must forgive me; since the war I've grown far too sentimental – 'complete' us, as it were."

Matthew scanned the room. Lady Grantham had fulfilled her service – Sir Richard was engrossed in a conversation with Branson.

"And have you found yours?" he asked, his meaning indicated by his line of sight. She followed the line with her eyes and held back the grimace when they reached the end. She turned back towards Matthew who still stood watching her fiancé, his profile lit from behind by a sconce on the wall, shadowing his eyes but light enough to see the calm blue waters that splashed within.

_Matthew._

"Yes. I believe I have."

* * *

><p>And so the intruders had come, had done their worst, and for the most part Downton Abbey had survived intact. Lord Grantham watched them all disperse, retiring to their respective bedchambers, before escorting his Mama to the car.<p>

"And there they go. My youngest daughter – and the chauffeur."

"Come now, Robert, don't be unreasonable. He's the _former_ chauffeur."

"I don't understand how you can be so sanguine about the situation. Your own granddaughter, married to a servant," he said, and then remembering the command not to be unreasonable added, "Forgive me: _former_ servant."

"I prefer to keep things in perspective. After all, it could have been worse."

Robert scoffed, turning towards her. "I find that hard to believe. What could possibly be worse than the chauffeur?"

She chuckled lightly, patting his hand. "My dear Robert, you must use your imagination. Just think – she could have married an American!"

* * *

><p><em>And so everyone is here! Thank you all for bearing with me while absolutely nothing happened to advance the plot. Now that all the pieces are in place things will start getting resolved! (hopefully)<em> _Thanks so much for reading :)_


	7. Day 7: Expectations

_Sorry for the wait. There have been some technical difficulties :D I also want to say that I hope you got your giggles out last chapter because now I have to start resolving the plot lines so things will take a turn for the serious.  
><em>

_One side note: I have neither the time nor inclination to fully research UK legal proceedings from our era, so you'll basically be treated to what I know from watching copious amounts of Law and Order (just work with me people!)._

_Thanks again to AriadneO, who I neglected to mention last chapter, for betaing this whole mess for me._

* * *

><p><strong>Day 7: Expectations<strong>

Her days didn't usually begin before dawn. Not that she minded the early rousing, or even that she'd been wasting the last few hours of nightfall on sleeping when Mary came, rapping out three perfunctory knocks of warning, before bursting through her door.

"Good heavens, Mary!" Sybil cried. "You shouldn't just barge in like this!"

Mary at least had the good graces to look surprised when she beheld the dishevelment, while Edith poked her head around her sister, wondering why she was even there, and feeling she really ought to be averting her gaze right about now.

"What's wrong with you two? Don't you ever sleep?" Mary exclaimed.

"Don't be silly," Sybil replied. "Of course we do! Only, we were settling a dispute, and then –"

"Never mind!" Mary cried, knowing (for Edith's sake, of course) that she needed to nip that explanation in the bud. "You must come at once, Sybil. Sir Anthony and Viscount Brankson are gravely ill."

Sybil obeyed, hopping out of bed and snapping into her nurse's uniform (which she naturally carried everywhere and had hanging in the wardrobe on stand by) and followed her sister out of the bedroom and onwards to the bachelor's corridor.

Edith was left to back slowly out of the room, no longer requiring imagination to see what lay under the uniform, and feeling she really ought to be averting her gaze right about now; while Branson sat petrified, as still as stone in silent mortification, having lost count of the number of times his heart had just murmured.

* * *

><p>"Could you pick up the pace a bit, Jones, we don't want to be late," Lord Grantham groused, giving an impolitic tap at the glass partition.<p>

_One of his moods,_ Cora inwardly groaned from beside him. That she was even accompanying Robert into Ripon to support Bates during his cross-examination –leaving behind a house full of guests, no less – was quite a stretch to her sense of duty as a hostess. But she'd made the effort, for Robert and for Anna, whose blonde head she could see bobbing just up front, and whose presence she had stalwartly advocated.

"_Robert, don't you think we should offer to take Anna along? I've already spoken with Mrs. Hughes, and O'Brien says she'd be more than happy to take care of the girls for one day."_

"_If you think it best," he replied, with a look and tone that conveyed he clearly did not. "Though I'm not sure why Bates will need Anna when _I'm_ going to be there."_

To those unbreakable bonds of "brotherhood" Cora had long ago been resigned. Not that she could begrudge her husband the partiality, when she knew full well the esprit de corps that could flourish with one who routinely changed your undergarments. Which reminded her:

"Robert, I was speaking to O'Brien earlier this week, and she mentioned something about Thomas' position as valet." At the reference Robert's snappish attitude was beginning to realign it's focus from his chauffeur to his wife, but she pressed on regardless. "After all he's done for us recently, it would be very unfair to push him back down to footman if Bates is found innocent, don't you agree?"

Robert opened his mouth to speak, an avalanche of reproof at the tip of his tongue.

_How can you be so selfish as to think of Thomas when Bates' life is on the line?_

_Do I have no authority over who I will and who I will not choose as my own valet?_

_Why do you even listen to that odious woman?_

They teetered there, needing only the gentlest nudge to send them spilling over and choke such brazen notions out of his wife, but glancing out the window he saw the freshness of winter passing by, and Cora – clean and beautiful, and sitting beside him in a frozen motorcar when she'd much rather be warm by the fire and surrounded by pleasantry – reflected in the glass. By increments the fog dispersed, clearing away the airs of perceived persecution to reveal the unbiased reality: his dear wife merely conveying a request, and he all but ready to decapitate her for it.

"I understand her concern," Robert replied measuredly, "and while I can't promise to keep Thomas on if Bates goes free, I will at least consider it."

The shock was evident. "Do you really mean it?" she asked, searching his eyes for the onslaught of rebukes that had become like familiar friends to her. She waited pensively for their arrival, bracing herself.

Robert let out a playful smile, relaxing her – delighting her. "Am I often in the habit of saying things I don't mean?"

"No, of course not. It's only – I wasn't expecting that, is all."

"My being civil, you mean?" Uncertainty was making its way onto her face at his remark, but he chased it away by grasping her hand. "Don't worry, my love, I only meant it as a joke," he assured her, and feeling the chill through her glove asked, "Are you cold, my dear?"

She was freezing, but had not felt such warmth in years.

"Not when you're holding my hand."

* * *

><p>There was a rumble brewing in the kitchen, so one of the new footman informed her, and Elsie was shuffling her way over for another butting of the heads when she was abruptly halted by the harrowing sight of Mrs. Patmore on a rampage, face boiling and cleaver trembling. That particular and not infrequent event alone wouldn't have been so surprising, but what shocked Elsie straight to her jangling storeroom key was the target who stood at the receiving end of the cook's wrath.<p>

"It had nothing to do with my cooking, I can assure you of that!" she spat into the butler's face. Mr. Carson didn't so much as flinch at the potent vitriol, though his hand did twitch at his side, yearning to take up his handkerchief and mop up the stray spittle. But he staved off the compulsive impulse, much to Elsie's private admiration.

"I haven't mentioned one word about your cooking, Mrs. Patmore, only that Dr. Clarkson diagnosed it as a food borne illness."

"Oh, Dr. Clarkson, did you say? Ha! Well I suppose if Dr. Clarkson says it then it _must_ be holier than Gospel Truth!"

"No one is blaming you, Mrs. Patmore –"

"Well I don't agree. It sounds very much as if _you're_ blaming me!"

"It could have easily been the fault of a kitchen maid who didn't make sure the chicken was fully cooked or didn't notice that the one of the oysters had gone bad."

Pressing her knuckles hard against the counter, Mrs. Patmore leaned in dangerously. "I didn't serve any under cooked chicken, and I didn't serve an off oyster," she said with controlled menace. "I'm responsible for everything that comes out of my kitchen, and nothing – but nothing – ever leaves those doors that isn't fit for a king!"

"Be that as it may, I shall have to request that from now on you recheck every dish that is served, upstairs or downstairs, for suitability." He gave no chance for protest, quickly turning on his heel and, after a few steps, nearly collided with the lurking housekeeper.

"Mrs. Hughes," he greeted, the sight a boon to his sore eyes. In unspoken agreement the pair moved as one, peeling away from the others to conduct their conversation with a modicum of privacy. "I don't have any more time to waste on that woman. I've got to get down to the village before the bus leaves."

"So you're off, then?"

"Yes. And not a minute too soon." He frowned. "You don't thing it wrong of me to take an afternoon off with all _this_ going on, do you?"

"Not at all. Were that I could only join you."

"And deprive Downton of both butler and housekeeper?" He snorted at the obscene suggestion. "Mrs. Patmore's been setting herself far too superior as of late. You'll take care of her for me, won't you, Mrs. Hughes?"

Troubles of her own had coiled Elsie's nerves till she felt herself a clock spring, and she decided that it would be nice to blow off a little steam. She patted the dangling set of keys at her side – her trump card in all things Patmore related – bestowing Carson with an almost wicked smirk.

"Gladly."

* * *

><p>The gentleman leaned a hair too far to the left – his top hat was now blocking her view, and Anna squirmed in her chair for a better look as the barrister continued his series of inquiries.<p>

"So from all you've told us, Mr. Bates, you had access to the murder weapon, you were upset at her refusal to grant you a divorce so you could marry your current wife, Mrs. Anna Bates, and you were present on the day she was murdered – in other words: means, motive, and opportunity."

"Objection! What is the question?" rang out the defendant's advocate.

The judge cast a stern and weary look at the prosecutor. "Sustained. Please stay on topic, Mr. Jackson."

"Mr. Bates, you've acknowledged there was ill will between your late wife and yourself. Please describe the nature of your feelings regarding Mrs. Vera Bates."

They'd prepared for this. In the visiting room, with Bellamy's large frame towering over him, threatening him with sundry forms of physical abuse, they had decided on the most diplomatic set of answers to this delicate question.

But little did Bellamy know that his efforts would be in vain. In the span of John Bates' life – as soldier, husband, prisoner, and vagrant – he'd contributed his fair share of falsehood. Sometimes it had gotten him out of trouble; most often it only aggravated the trouble he was already in, and pushed through the harsh sieve of experience, he'd resolved long ago that no lie would ever cross his lips again. Even for her.

_Because of her._

"You're correct, Mr. Jackson. There was no love lost between Vera and myself. I despised her, and – and yes, there were times that I did wish her dead."

"Order! Order!" the judge called from his perch, forcing back the rumble that erupted at Bates' testimony as triumph seized the prosecutor's face.

"But I didn't kill her!"

Bates' plea was useless, lost amidst Mr. Jackson's exultant tirade, the jury still in the grips of muttering, his own barrister ineffectively calling for reason; and through the mayhem was Mr. Bellamy, fuming, throwing out a glare that would put Hades to shame, and wordlessly mouthing something that John thought looked suspiciously like "ceiling tile."

* * *

><p>He alighted on the morning bus traveling south, made a transfer at Blacksmeade, and by lunchtime had arrived at Givendale. The seats on the second bus were of the grimy sort, and to escape the neurotics that were usually induced by being in the same vicinity of such filth, he let his mind stroll back to the now week old conversation with the Dowager, subconsciously wiping at the residues till the brown leather gleamed.<p>

"_Forgive me, my lady, but I'm not sure I understand why we simply can't come forward ourselves with what you know."_

"_When one uses less than perfectly legal means to acquire information, it behooves one to leave its exposure to other, more innocent hands."_

He'd wisely left well enough alone at that, following her instructions to the letter without any further questions as to the source of her knowledge, deciding that ignorance was often the best policy for butlers, whom he found were always inexplicably blamed when there was mischief afoot.

The tiny cottage sat a few miles off the main road, surrounded by large farms on either side, and out front a neat kitchen garden bloated with winter squash that stood in place of a yard. Carson was a large man but had spent years perfecting his silent footfall, enabling him to deftly sneak around to the back, peer inside the window, and confirm what the Dowager had suspected. Creeping back to the lane, he scribbled down the address as another recollection surfaced, this time regarding the future recipient of scrap of paper in his hand.

"_And are you absolutely sure she's the one? She's never been very fond of Bates, and to be quite honest, I don't expect her to carry through with it."_

"_She'll be the only one with pieces enough to fit the puzzle together. And inside is a kind soul, even if she will persist in guarding it with a shield of iron. Don't you worry Carson, I have complete faith in her."_

The Dowager's assignments completed, and Carson could now move on to matters of a more personal nature, namely the annual curio that he purchased for a certain housekeeper's cabinet.

He perused the various shops lining the main street and stopped into one that had just what he was looking for. He examined its wares: this one too big, that one too small, those in the back were much too ostentatious. Mrs. Hughes wasn't a picky woman, but she was exacting, and a catalogue of past criticisms leveled against his previous choices acted as guides to his current, most significant selection. The shop girl behind the counter fluttered her approval as she wrapped up the trinket, sealing it with a gaudy, silver bow.

So pleased was he with his purchase that Carson indulged in a flight of fancy on the return trip: beaming, humming, and tapping his foot while imagining the shocked look on Mrs. Hughes' face when she opened the package, sure that it was the last thing she would expect

* * *

><p>John Bates had been relegated to a holding area during the recess, denied permission for an unescorted meeting with his wife or to even have his hands freed from the cuffs.<p>

She clutched at them through the steel.

He smiled slightly, apologetically. "I suppose that could have gone better." She gripped them harder to ward off the tears, though of anger or sorrow she could not say.

"Please don't be joking at a time like this!" she cried.

"I'm sorry, Anna," he told her. He hesitated. He meant to say more. "For what I said."

_For everything._

After several moments of silence he spoke again. "I needed to be honest. I spent so much of my life telling lies that I –"

"I know why you did it," she said, her voice small. "I just wish it had never happened. I'd rather have her alive than have you facing this." He squeezed her hand.

"It's not only me that's facing this. And it's because of you that I felt brave enough to tell them the truth at all."

The clock ticked steadily on the wall, each second bringing her closer to lasting happiness or lifelong widowhood.

"John…I'm scared. I'm so scared," she confessed, the words muffled between quiet sobs which she smothered into his shackled hands.

He brought his head down to her level, whispering in her ear. "It'll be all right. What's that Daisy is always saying? 'The truth will come out in the end.'"

"She does say that quite a bit," she sniffed, lifting her head. "And I want to believe it. But their faces, John. They think _you_ did it. I could see it in their eyes."

"The trial's barely begun. Mr. Bellamy is a fine lawyer, and he'll prove my innocence to the jury. We just need to be strong, the both of us."

"I'll be strong for you. I don't care what happens, we're going to be together, one way or another. We're going to have our happy ending."

The way back to Downton was quiet, at least for her. Their Lordship and Ladyship were talking, laughing like the old days, in the back seat. But Anna's station apportioned her a seat up front, where she sat with a heart that was full of anxiety.

The new chauffeur was a quiet old man who allowed Anna space to remember a time before John Bates. The sky was blue, the grass was green, and she was Anna Smith, head housemaid of Downton Abbey, living a nominally regular and happy existence.

But one early morning he'd come, just arrived off the milk train – Mr. John Bates, his Lordship's new valet.

And so he'd entered her life, took hold of it, possessed it, strangled everything else out until only he remained. He replaced the sun, did away with the moon, and she didn't feel a thimble of foolishness for it. There were those who might call her devotion a weakness, but loyalty and faithfulness – these took more courage than self-interest – and there was no other time in Anna's life when she had felt so strong, so brave, or so alive as when she was Mrs. John Bates.

* * *

><p>With his father sequestered to the sick bed, Evelyn had been freed from any obligation to pamper the Viscount and his habitual sullenness. He went for a walk through the gardens, played a round of billiards with Mr. Crawley, and even summoned the courage for a trip down to the stables to admire the Grantham's collection of thoroughbreds, and wonder when he'd finally shed his demons enough to ride again.<p>

The library would be his final stop, to wile away the after dinner hours in a verbose yet engaging novel. Upon entering he saw her, seated in a chair by the fire.

"Lady Edith," he greeted. "I hope I'm not disturbing you."

"Mr. Napier," she returned. "No, of course not. Please, do come in."

Neither of them would progress in their literary pursuits that night. Instead they would reminisce of the world before, speak of their lives since parting ways two years ago, and talk of their future, of the goals that seemed that much more precious when focused through the lens of life's brevity.

"Have you found any employment for yourself, after the war? I remember when I was here recovering you told me how exhilarating it was to at last feel useful."

"I'm afraid not," Edith frowned. "I suppose I could fly off the way Sybil has, but she's always been braver than I, and no one really expects something like that out of me."

Her confession struck a chord. Evelyn was familiar with low expectations and told her as much: Inherit, marry, sire, and die. Wasn't that all he was destined for? They laughed over it, both slightly giddy with the intoxicating drink of kindred spirits, and before the night was through, promised each other that they would teach the world to expect the unexpected.

* * *

><p>The end of the day always left Elsie's nerves overly frayed. Mr. Carson was usually on hand to share a small glass of wine and mend them all back up again, but he still hadn't returned from his journey, and instead the knock on her door came from Anna, back from Ripon and desiring to speak about a matter concerning Ethel.<p>

"I thought, well – couldn't we make some kind of arrangement for her? Like we did with Jane? If we could find someone, in the village maybe, to watch after Charlie so Ethel could –"

"I see where you're going with this, Anna," Mrs. Hughes said, raising a hand and shaking her head in advancement of refusal. "But I'm not sure it's possible. Even if I wanted to, it's not only my decision, and I doubt very much that Lady Grantham would want a girl of her character in the house. And then there's the matter of finding someone to watch the wee one."

Disappointment tightened Anna's visage, and she audibly exhaled, nibbling at her bottom lip. Shoulders slacking and a downturned head – she looked beaten down, and Mrs. Hughes had nearly resolved to relent, to remove at least an ounce of the burden heaped upon the poor girl, when Anna snapped her head back up again.

"Will you just think about it, at least?"

Elsie formulated a gentle reply in the negative, for she didn't want to get Anna's expectations up when the likelihood of such an arrangement working out was rather low. But Anna was looking as though wrestling the very grip of death itself– a fighter to the end, that one – and in the end Elsie let her maternal instincts get the better of her.

"Of course I will. But now get on with you. With Lily down everyone has to do twice as much work to make up for it, as you well know, and you've already missed most of the day as it is," Mrs. Hughes ordered, sitting back down to sip her solitary glass of wine as Anna shuffled back out the door.

And though she hadn't meant to pry and had only been there looking for a biscuit that had dropped and rolled away, from behind the vent Daisy heard it all, and the wheels in her mind slowly began to turn.

* * *

><p>His plan was going marvelously, simply marvelously! Lady Rosamund was besotted, to say the least, just as Lady Bavershead, Mrs. Grant, and Miss Simpton had been before her.<p>

Lord Hepworth donned his dressing gown, prancing towards the vanity. _What _is_ it about that face,_ he asked himself from the watch glass, _that beautiful, beautiful face? _Reflected back he saw high set cheek bones, far too smooth for a man of his age, an equine nose perfect for sneering, and a set of piercing eyes that were essential weapons in any fortune hunter's arsenal.

Perfection, he mused with a twirl. Completely hazardous but impossible to deny –like butter – he at last decided.

Crossing the room he flounced onto the bed with every intention of lounging. Dancing attendance on Lady Rosamund and her harridan of a mother had depleted even his deep well of reserves. To put it bluntly, he was exhausted, and desperately in need of a full night of beauty sleep to maintain his zealous yet disingenuous courtship. But unfortunately for him, at that moment a pair of amber eyes and a rather stunning form happened to slink in through the door. Hepworth smiled.

"Shore, isn't it?"

"In situations such as these," she purred, "I prefer Marigold." His face began dancing. _That_ comment warranted nothing less than a profound eye waggle.

"Marigold, then," Lord Hepworth said, sauntering towards her. "I must admit this is one of the last things I expected." And drawing her closer whispered, "You seem to be quite the seducer of Lords."

The seductress in her almost laughed – if only he knew – but was able to maintain the façade.

"Quite."

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><p><em>Thanks for reading :D<em>


	8. Day 8: Investigations

_I probably should have warned you that this fic could almost be categorized as a *mystery*, and that I've been leaving clues to all the different plot lines as far back as chapter 2. Hope you were paying attention, haha! But seriously it doesn't matter too much because everything will be explained at the end._

_There have been a number of anonymice reviewing and I wanted to give a shoutout to them. I can't talk to you personally but know that I appreciate you!_

_Also thanks again to AriadneO, who aside from betaing also puts up with my Branson levels of badgering._

* * *

><p><strong>Day 8: Investigations<strong>

"So Sybil tells me that since you covered for Anna yesterday, you've been given the day off."

"That's right."

"Do you have any plans?"

"If you must know, though I don't see how it's any of your business, I was thinking of reorganizing my button box."

The disclosure of such lofty ambitions earned a wry glance up from the newspaper, just in time for Branson to observe Mr. Carson ambling down the stairs, bright–eyed and ready to begin another dignified day, the last thing he ever expected to find upon entering the servant's hall a member of the family seated nonchalantly, going so far as to enjoy a biscuit and tea, and flagrantly flying in the face of the strictly regulated protocols of Downton Abbey and basically everything that the butler stood for.

As one the staff jumped to their feet.

"Might I ask what you're doing down here, Mr. Branson?" Carson rumbled as the trespasser turned a page.

"Reading the paper," he replied casually, flipping another, the flouting of decency becoming too much for Sarah to bear.

"I already tried telling him to leave, Mr. Carson, but you know how he is."

"And I thank you for the sterling effort, Miss O'Brien." The butler turned his not insignificant frame toward the seated intruder. "Now Mr. Branson, considering your change in position, I think it would be prudent if you no longer spent your free time in the servant's hall."

Branson was getting that glimmer in his eyes, and Carson knew he'd have only seconds to ward off the lilting effusions.

"Spare us the protests, if you please. You may be uncomfortable upstairs, but the fact remains that you've made your bed, and I'm afraid you're going to have to sleep in it," he said, belatedly regretting his rather apt choice of idiom ("I'm sure he does more than that in it" – this of course from Thomas), "so I shall have to ask you to please kindly take your newspaper reading up to the drawing room."

Branson rose, head held high, and clambered up the stairs with as much dignity as the banished expatriate could muster, leaving Carson to stifle a sigh of relief, and to make a most unusual request of the freed-up lady's maid.

"I was wondering, Miss O'Brien, if you've got no other plans for your day off, if you wouldn't mind picking up a package for me in Givendale."

"Givendale?" she asked. "You want me to go to Givendale?" she repeated as though he'd asked her to pick up a telegram from the moon.

Carson handed her a small sheet of paper scrawled with the address of the destination and the particulars of her assignment. Her face was like murder, but for all O'Brien seemed disgusted at the demand, Carson wasn't worried. She would acquiesce – of course she would. No matter how much Sarah O'Brien despised authority, she still could never bring herself to actually defy it.

* * *

><p>They came from two different worlds, Sybil and him. On the border between land and sea, a fish might fall in love with a bird, and pretend that they could adapt to each other's habitats. He could put on the clothes and say mostly the right things, but in the end, he was still a poor Irish lad wandering the halls and corridors of English opulence.<p>

But Branson was optimistic by nature, idealistic by choice. He believed the world would change, and though a fish may never fly and a bird never breathe under water, he still envisioned a future where a child could be born – their child – and raised with the ideals of equality so cherished by her parents, living unhindered by such man-made barriers as class and race, floating with ease between the two separate worlds, blithe, happy, and free.

With the happy thought of his and Sybil's future baby amphibian swimming through his mind, it was no wonder Branson's mood was visibly brightened when he soared into the drawing room to finish the last of his paper reading.

"Ah, there you are," the Dowager welcomed him. "We've been wondering where you'd gone off to."

"Well here I am, m'lady – at your service," he said almost cheekily, eliciting a small chuckle from the matriarch.

"Pun intended, I take it? Well I'm glad to see you in better spirits and that you've had done with your incessant sulking. I was just telling Edith here that with Sybil so occupied in the sick rooms you must be quite bereft."

Granny had been telling her nothing of the sort, and Edith shot her grandmother a questioning look. The matron's piercing eyes bored into her, a mental nudging of the ribs.

"Yes…yes," Edith put in roughly. Seamless discourse was as a foreign tongue to her. "It's a shame she should spend her whole holiday working, rather than enjoying herself."

"But I think she does enjoy it. There's nothing Sybil likes better than to be busy!" he replied, his sincere pride like confetti thrown over the words.

"But surely you two had made some plans for your stay here."

"Not really," he answered, but gave a momentary pause to recollect and amend with, "Well, she had wanted to take a trip out to Leeds one of these days."

"Leeds? Why, whatever for? What's in Leeds?"

"I'm not actually sure. Someone gave me a lead back in Ireland – a tip on some kind of scandal – that I've traced to a warehouse in Leeds. I told Sybil about it and, well you know Sybil – she was determined to go investigating!" Another handful of confetti. Edith had forgotten how much like a party a conversation with Branson could be; but the entire prospect _was_ a very intriguing one, and not only for Sybil.

"But it all sounds so exciting!" Edith cried. "You could still go on without her, I dare say."

"I don't really feel comfortable ordering his Lordship's car for myself."

"Well I'll do it then. I can even drive, if you like!"

It was a kind offer, or it would have been had Branson never been exposed to Lady Edith's rather suspect driving abilities. His experiences as her tutor sorely tempted him to refuse on the spot, but Branson heard the Dowager declare it a "marvelous idea!", saw the matriarch's keen eyes settle on him – the iron gaze of the Crawley women that he knew so well – and with grim resignation knew that he shouldn't even bother to argue.

* * *

><p>In the law offices of Carter, Carter, and Harrington, Matthew Crawley had had just about enough.<p>

"This is ridiculous, Carter! I know full well the incompetence with which you handled the case, and to actually demand full payment –"

"I was lawfully employed by Mr. Bates at the time, and therefore I deserve my full wage as his lawyer!"

Matthew stepped back and turned around lest he level the man right then and there. He clenched the offending fist, ran the other hand raggedly through his hair, and turned to reface his former associate, rage still blistering under his skin, but voice cooled down to lukewarm moderation.

"Bates hired you at my recommendation, and when I think of how you mishandled his case I –" Matthew paused – _Don't make this about you – _and continued. "You're a good lawyer, Carter. I don't understand what went wrong, or why you persist in this matter when it can't be more than ten pounds you're fighting for." His composure had paid off; James Carter wilted, crumpling into a nearby chair and hanging his face into his hands.

"The truth is Matthew, I'm…I'm desperately hard up," he mumbled through his fingers.

"What do you mean?" Matthew asked.

"Investments, old chap. Bad investments." He looked back up with a doleful smile. "They've left me dry. I've barely enough to feed my family, such as things stand, and right now ten pounds can be the difference between respectability and homelessness." Matthew stepped towards him, the anger that had drained away at the admission quickly becoming replaced with confusion.

"If you're so desperate for cash, then why conduct Bates' case in a manner that would only ensure your dismissal?"

"That's just the thing. I was earning more ruining John Bates' case than I would have gotten if I'd put in my best effort." Matthew's confusion intensified, till the complete guilt etched onto Carter's face at last pieced the lawyer's inscrutable words together.

"Are you talking about a payoff?" Matthew asked, incredulous. "Why? Who?"

"The why I can't tell you. As to the who…" Mathew stepped forward again, towering over the seated, sniveling man.

"Tell me, Carter," he demanded. "Tell me now."

Outside of the law offices of Carter, Carter, and Harrington, Matthew Crawley pondered his recent encounter, more confused than ever, for Carter's answer had been as staggering as it was baffling.

* * *

><p>Richard was no Reginald, Isobel knew, but there were some striking similarities: Both doctors (though in Richard's case, that term was rather loosely defined), both imbued with that rare talent of sporting a mustache rather well, both with names that began with the letter "R", and both with the ability to drive Isobel Crawley straight up the wall.<p>

"How can you refuse to give Nurse Branson the recommendation?" she charged, furious.

"She was a fine nurse, Mrs. Crawley, but I'm not sure she's fit to be a doctor," Dr. Clarkson explained.

"And why is that? Do you take some issue with her performance? Has she committed some error within the course of her duties that would so utterly disqualify her?"

"Pardon me," a nervous laugh butted into the shameless unprofessionalism. "I don't want to intrude upon your…discussion. But could I perhaps get a glass of water?" Sir Anthony had done his utmost to ignore and not be a nuisance, but incessant vomiting induced dehydration will at times drive even the most well-bred to impoliteness.

"I have no issues with her capabilities as a nurse. Indeed, she's one of the most capable I've ever worked with, but –"

"If your issues don't lie with her abilities, then the only other logical answer is that it is her particular sex that you take issue with." His jaw dropped.

"Absolutely ridiculous!"

"Well I daresay no one's asked my opinion," Sir Anthony cut in, "but Nurse Branson would have most certainly gotten me a glass of water by now." At this point subtlety was the best plan his dizzied mind could come up with.

"I think you feel threatened," Isobel continued her harangue. "By her, by me – by our entire gender invading your profession."

"Threatened? I've been a doctor nearly thirty years, served through two wars, and you think I feel threatened by an Earl's daughter who decided one morning that she wanted a profession?"

"I think your answer makes it clear enough of that you do."

Her reply nonplussed him. Angrily he left the room, slamming the door behind him. Isobel took a few exasperated gasps before remembering her patient.

"Well, Sir Anthony, I'm sorry you had to witness that. Now, is there anything I can get for you?" she asked solicitously, only too find that the gentleman had long since passed to blissful, yet thirsty, unconsciousness.

* * *

><p>Even the meekest of the upper crust always managed to have their own way in the end. It was unjust, Branson mused, but hardly surprising.<p>

They were speeding through the country, crisp, cool breeze whipping through their hair and stinging their faces, Edith gleefully at the wheel, exploiting the opportunity for all she could. When she hazarded another hairpin turn at a considerably unwise speed, Branson could no longer hold his peace.

"Please, m'lady, don't you know I have a heart condition?" he asked, but with more mirth than legitimate fear, though he still clutched feebly at the fragile organ for dramatic effect. She smiled away his very real concern, and bubbled up a small helping of her quirky yet elusive wit.

"So you've discerned my true motives: to turn Sybil into an early widow."

"Your lot's never going to accept me, are they?" he smiled. "Look, I'm not all bad. I've got a decent job, and I love your sister as much as any man ever could. And I know it's hard for you to believe, but back in Ireland – in Dublin – people respect me."

Edith glanced over to the face that was slowly yet surely becoming just as familiar as the back of his head already was. He carried a lopsided grin – something of a benevolent smirk, she thought – with a pinch of his usual self-possession creeping back from wherever it had been frightened away to. She had read Sybil's letters, remembered the faint snatches of personality that peeked through the dissembling servant from his time as their chauffeur, and knew that his ego was far from needing to be stroked, or to be informed that there were people who respected him sitting in this very car.

"You're right," she laughed. "Nearly impossible!"

* * *

><p>The location wasn't difficult to find, though Sarah was a bit alarmed by how much winter squash one residence really needed.<p>

_A gift for Mrs. Hughes_. Nothing to be astonished over, but she was still forced to repress a gag at the thought. _And did he have to go all the way to Givendale for it?_

After three hard raps and a sizeable wait that had her grumbling, the door finally swung open to reveal a short, stout woman – dark haired, dark eyed, and amply bosomed. That sight alone was not so shocking, but what nearly took Sarah's breath away was the bundle laid in the nurses' arms: a lovely baby girl, swirls of golden curls adorning her brow, and on the cherubic face, a set of deep, amber eyes…

* * *

><p>The dinner table had been sparse that night. Half the guests were sick, tending the sick, or off on some adventure. Mary had been seated in between Matthew and Richard, doing her best to ignore both, while nibbling on an expertly prepared tart that she barely had the appetite to stomach.<p>

A foretaste of her future.

But she'd cast off such melancholy meditations for now, push them aside while giving three distinct and rather loud knocks at the door, and bury them completely by the time Sybil's "Come in!" sounded quietly yet confidently at the other side, leaving Mary almost happy at the prospect of a late night talk with her errant sister.

"I've barely had three words with you since you arrived," Mary said upon entering. She walked to the vanity where her sister sat unpinning her hair and toyed with one of the freed locks – a habit from their youth – twirling the curl in her fingers.

They chatted amiably for some time, reacquainting each other with the familiar sister they had both been missing since their separation eight months ago, introducing each other to the changes both had underwent since then. Mary would have been content to stand playing with her sister's hair all evening until her one misstep, an inquiry regarding one of Sybil's patients in Dublin, forced her to sit upon the bed to fortify herself for the onslaught of Sybil's ensuing pensive outpourings.

The good nurse was thorough, starting with the plight of the working poor, canvassing the entire catalogue of Irish oppression, and ending with a noble and vaguely patronizing speech about what it means to make a _real _difference. Mary let her mind wander during the soliloquy, her sister's bleeding heart all but staining the carpet, and cast her head to and fro about the room, searching for the will to care. At long last she was freed, Sybil finally making reference to something involving the here and now:

"And now with this strange illness I've barely had any time to sleep."

"Speaking of which," Mary quickly interjected, "I wanted to apologize for yesterday morning. I hope you've recovered from the shock."

"Shouldn't I be the one saying that to you? And anyway, it's Tom you should be apologizing to, not me. I wasn't in the least embarrassed."

Mary frowned into her gown, picking at an imaginary speck. "Wouldn't that require me to actually speak to the man?" she asked.

"Oh, _Mary_." Sybil turned fully to her sister, beseeching. "I know you don't like him, but couldn't you at least learn to accept him?"

"And why should I?" Mary asked sincerely. "For stealing away my baby sister? Carrying her off to some God-forsaken warzone?"

"He didn't carry me away. I went quite willingly, if you remember." Mary did remember, and stayed silent. Sybil was still in a talkative mood, and ventured on a subject that had been troubling her. "Mary…you'll probably tell me I'm acting like a baby – but I've seen how you are with Sir Richard and it makes me wonder if….if you go willingly?"

Mary clenched her teeth. "Have you ever known me not to?" she said lightly, and hardening her tone added, "Believe it or not we can't all aspire to your levels of romanticism. Some of us must settle for a more practical path." She allowed a moment of effectual silence before flippantly adding, "Though I suppose you must think that rather cold-hearted, when compared to the inferno that beats within your chest?"

Sybil sighed at the deflection. She moved to sit beside her sister on the bed, but did not make to extend her comfort to physical contact – it was not their way. But her words were as a caress.

"I know you have feelings, even if you won't admit to them – I always have." Mary said nothing, and looked down into her clasped hands. "Oh, _Mary_," she beseeched again, "I wish that – " but stopped her plea. Sybil looked towards the window, saying in a small voice, "I don't expect you to understand, or even to believe me, but I love Tom, and I love my life. It's not the life I'd always thought I'd have, but it's one that I made for myself. And I don't regret it. Not now and not ever."

Mary looked into her sister's eyes, which were just now covered in a layer of mist, and which always seemed ten times more true and earnest than she ever felt her own. Sybil knew how thick Mary's walls could be, but moved to break the barrier anyway, and reached for her sister's hand.

"And I hope that one day you'll be able to say the same," she said. "We all do."

* * *

><p>"What is this place, Branson?"<p>

"I told you, m'lady. It's a warehouse. For storing things."

They'd had to wait till the last of the workers left before they could commence their snooping. Edith tiptoed through the door dramatically, exhilarated at being given the opportunity to put to good use her remarkable chameleon-like qualities, hiding in plain sight, blending into her surroundings through the very act of existing. Branson had plodded along rather normally and unexceptionally after her, forbearing comment.

Inside was like any other warehouse. Stacks of wooden crates stood in haphazard piles about, and Branson scanned the vicinity till he alighted on the desired object and retrieved the crowbar from the opposing wall. Prying open a lid and removing the crumpled newspaper that served as padding, he let out a low whistle when he saw what lay inside.

Barrels, bolt actions, firing mechanisms – and boxes upon boxes of ammunition.

"These are very strange looking car parts, aren't they Branson?" said Edith, and unsurprisingly so to Branson, who was by now fairly used to the infamous Crawley logic.

"They're not – they're parts for weapons, m'lady, not cars."

"Weapons? I don't understand, Branson. I thought this was a motor company."

"That's what it claims to be. Obviously they're an arms dealer, and this motor company business is just a cover." Upstairs was a small office, and he indicated it with his hand. "Let's have a look up there. See what we can find."

They made their way up the staircase. The desk drawer was locked, but Branson easily jimmied it open, removing a sheaf of papers that he hastily shuffled through.

"What are all these, Branson?"

"Receipts for purchase. Germany. Austria. England. France."

"But what does it all mean, Branson?" By this point Branson might have despaired of ever earning a "Mr." from his highborn in-laws, were it not for the forbidding knowledge that they'd just discovered, consuming every other thought.

"War profiteering," he answered grimly.

* * *

><p>Downton village was not known for its nightlife, Thomas well knew, heels clicking against the emptied sidewalks. A sleepy town, it boasted of only two pubs, one derelict music hall, and supposed but as yet unproven foibles. One hand pocketed, the other deftly balancing a half-consumed fag, he stopped under a shaded street sign.<p>

_Drury Lane_

Briskly he walked down the cool, dark lane, his form briefly and infrequently illuminated by the faint glow of streetlights that stretched few and far between. He watched carefully, for he was unfamiliar with this particular lane, aside from the fact that it housed a barber shop, and that its moniker often filled him with the overwhelming desire for a muffin. Within minutes he found it.

_The barber shop._

The storefront was shuttered, locked. Inside was darkness and quiet. Thomas sucked a long, warm drag in lieu of audible disappointment, but when it came time to exhale he was already moving again, having just recalled the important, clarifying modifier.

Behind _the barber shop._

A heavy door. Thomas approached it and saw the outline of a peephole, felt the throbbing intensity lying just behind. He knocked twice. The peephole opened.

"You here for the match?" growled the bottom half of a stubbled and heavily scarred face. Thomas could improvise, had been doing so his whole life, and answered in his slick, urbane way.

"Course I am. Why else would I be here?" he drawled, lazy confidence lending credence to his words.

The peephole closed. A heavy clunk unbolted the door, a high-pitched swing on hinges in desperate need of an oiling opened it, and Thomas was welcomed with a crush of smoke, sweat and stench. He walked in.

The room was grimy, even for one who had spent the better part of two years calling a mud hole his home; its occupants gritty, sundry characters whose hobbies would include pub brawls or skull crushing – "Village riffraff," he heard a haughty voice sniff in the back of his mind.

A circle of bodies were huddled together in the center of the room, encasing the pulsating energy emanating from the core, and as Thomas squeezed himself in he saw what lay within – an arena – and inside the crudely drawn circle its fierce combatants:

Chickens.

Roosters, to be exact.

_Cocks_, Thomas realized, after the shock began to dissipate. _It's a cock fight._

It explained the smell, and the feathers, and the droppings that Thomas just noticed littered about the floor. It also explained a few other things, he realized, noting amidst the filth and degradation a goofy grin and gangly form, hands pounding the floor, oblivious to the excreta overflowing around him:

The first footman.

Thomas would have been in awe, but he'd known the Dowager too long. All in all, it'd been a most revealing Wednesday night.

* * *

><p>"Matthew told us some disturbing news after dinner," Lady Grantham said to her maid after the end of a trying day. "It seems that Bates' old lawyer, Mr. Carter, was actually being bribed to botch the case."<p>

O'Brien perked at the tidbit. "Bribed? Forgive me, my lady, but I can't see who would care enough about Bates' trial to bribe his lawyer."

"Well that's the perplexing part and why Matthew thought it best that we should know. It was his Lordship's cousin –well, his cousin's husband – Lord Flintshire."

_Lord Flintshire_

"Baffling, isn't it O'Brien?"

"Very much so, my lady," O'Brien lied.

That night Sarah lay awake in her bed, any notion of sleep a mere vanity, and knowing with perfect certainty the identity of Mrs. Vera Bates' murderer.


	9. Day 9: Deliberations

_I'm already going to warn you: We're taking a break from mystery shenanigans for this all important...Mary extravaganza!_

_Thanks again to the wonderful AriadneO for lots of late night encouragement and awesome beta skills!_

* * *

><p><strong>Day 9: Deliberations <strong>

It was a little known fact, so little that she was the only one to actually know it, that Lady Mary Crawley was almost constantly plagued with a splitting headache. If pressed, she would lay the blame at society's feet, for its fascination with that ideal of feminine perfection, it's stipulation for complicated, skull stretching coiffures, and, most importantly, her strict adherence to it all.

Grey skies were looming. Outside the window they gathered, the clouds rolling in low blankets over the green lawns of Downton and its wooded environs. Anna hovered, quietly working her nimble hands, jabbing, pulling, pricking at the long black locks till Mary's eyes watered with the sting of the pinning, though she evinced not a whimper nor a wince to signal her discomfort. She never did.

"Have you heard from Bates recently?" Mary asked, the stone mask softening.

"I got a letter just yesterday. Today's the last day of the trial, before the courts close for the holiday."

"Papa's been keeping abreast of it all, but he's been rather reluctant to share anything." She had formed the statement into almost a question, but Anna stayed silent, inviting no further discussion on the matter. Looking down into her lap, Mary fiddled with the collar of her blouse, flicking her eyes to the mirror before tentatively asking, "How is it going?"

"To be honest, milady… not very well. It's hard to know for sure, of course, but I can tell by his letters that he's worried."

"I'm very sorry to hear that. Truly, I am."

"Thank you, milady. But I still think it will be all right in the end. It has to be. He's innocent and the truth will come out sooner or later."

"You never give up, do you Anna?"

"No, milady, not me, although I think some would call me foolish, hanging on like this. It's a hard path but one I'd gladly walk a thousand times over if it meant being happy with him at the end of it."

Mary saw Anna smile into the mirror – weak but bold, pained but hopeful – and wondered at such steadfastness. The maid walked several paces to the bed where the rest of the day's outfit had been laid, and in her absence Mary raised a finger to trace over the demarcation of her hairline, the starting point whence all the migraines originated. In her dreams she saw herself slicing off the ebony locks and tossing them in the fire to singe, curl, and melt away into a stream of noxious odors, finally freeing her from the painful burden, no matter the cost to her vanity.

But this morning there could be no allowances; the planned activities – a shooting party – would see her outdoors and mobile, leaving no room for errant strands or stray curls, and permitting only the most severe styling.

* * *

><p>Sarah O'Brien had little to no compunctions about anything in life. Nothing was sacred, nothing too hallowed. There was no adytum that she would not hazard to defile with her presence if it meant benefit for herself or those she cared for.<p>

Which was why she couldn't fathom exactly why she was stooped over a low dresser, hands plunged into a sea of silk underthings – rummaging, even – while her ears stretched for any sound of disturbance by the door that might foreshadow a possible discovery.

And all for the sake of one Mr. John Bates.

Perhaps not entirely true, she tried to console herself. There was still curiosity, the desire to confirm her suspicions, and the savory taste of retribution which could also be named as the reasons for her current snooping. A few more minutes searching proved her efforts worthwhile when she extracted the item she knew must be hidden, and in the most obvious of all hiding places.

_The stocking drawer. Always the stocking drawer._

The stack of letters was tied together with a loose knot of twine. Carefully she plucked at the bulge till the string collapsed, freeing the bundle and allowing her to peruse the sheaf till she came across the most incriminating of the missives. She scanned it quickly before stealing back down to the servant's hall, the evidence that would mean the life or death of John Bates stowed safely in her pocket.

* * *

><p>An English hunt.<p>

The very name denotes exclusivity, or so the sole non-Anglo in residence reasoned when he determined to spend the afternoon sequestered in his room, punching out angry epithets decrying that strange aristocratic tradition combining idleness and animal cruelty on a second-hand typewriter. The fact that he had never shot a gun before in his life may have swayed the decision.

Lord Hepworth gave an impressive moue when told of the absence while the party congregated in the foyer before departing.

"I've been meaning to have a word with that chap ever since we arrived! I wanted to ask him if he knew Constance Howard _very_ well or if it was more of a passing acquaintance," he said to Lady Rosamund who was standing nearby, ready to spend the day fulfilling that feminine task of unconditional praise, and who was now arching an eyebrow and smothering a laugh at his innocent gullibility. Such an utter lack of guile was rather attractive in a man!

"You must have been listening to Mama," she said. "I think you may be somewhat misinformed as to my brother's son-in-law and his supposed connections." Rosamund would have gleefully expounded on the subject, but her attention was just then claimed by the Countess of Grantham, a serene grin plastered on her face as she floated down the staircase like an angel who'd lost her way. "Cora, my dear," Rosamund said, walking over to greet her hostess. "I've been very remiss, but I've got a letter here from Murray. We happened to meet right as I was leaving for Downton, and he asked me to deliver it Robert."

"A letter from Murray? What is it about?"

"He didn't say, and I certainly didn't ask. I would have fulfilled my commission sooner, I dare say, but I've been rather…. distracted as of late. Could you bring it up to your room for Robert to have a look at later?"

"Yes, of course," Cora said, accepting the letter, her slight confusion easily masked by decades of acquired refinement and even more easily overlooked by the "distracted" Lady Rosamund.

From the sidelines, Mary examined the exchange and envied the mother whose married status granted her leave to eschew with the tedious practice of blindly complimenting and seal-clapping while watching Men Do Things. She frowned at the thought of the prospects and company that lay ahead, but collected herself enough to smile when she heard a low voice rumble behind her.

"Ready for a day standing behind the guns, my lady?"

"I'd sooner that than stand in front of them. But don't worry, Carson, there's no need to feel any pity for my sake. It will be nice to get some fresh air, even if I'm not allowed to kill anything," she replied. She had not intended to end on such a sour note, but provoked from the butler a subdued chuckle nonetheless.

"And more's the pity. I think you would make a fine shot, if you don't mind my saying."

"But I'm afraid I do mind," she teased, and turning around to face him explained, "Suppose one day Sybil's dreams do come true, equality is at last achieved, and I am given a chance at the hunt? If some mishap were to occur, I'd need all the excuses being a member of the weaker sex has to offer to carry me through." Mary had assumed the furtive but irresistible flick her eyes had cast upon her fiancé had gone unnoticed, but inwardly reproached her lapse at the butler's next words.

"I'm sure it won't come to that, my lady," he responded, suddenly and uncharacteristically grave. "You leave everything up to your grandmother. She'll see it all righted in the end."

Mary gazed searchingly at the familiar face, surprised at his confession and puzzled as to its ulterior meaning. But her deliberations were cut short, her father just then bounding down the stairs. His appearance ushered in the exodus from the house, where outside Lynch and the assembled gamesmen stood waiting.

"Here you are, milord. Twenty bore, just as you requested, and enough shot to last through the afternoon."

"Very good, Lynch, very good!" Lord Grantham said with restrained glee. He took the proffered weapon: two feet of bended steel and smooth wood, intricately designed to maim at no less than the speed of sound. Double-barreled, the highest caliber – a most necessary weapon when engaged against that fearsome foe of the fat, semi-flightless bird – the weight of unadulterated power resting heavy in his gloved hands. "A shame we couldn't convince Mr. Napier to join us, but then I'm sure Edith will be happy to keep him company."

Matthew walked over to accept his own weapon, remarking, "It looks like rain today."

"Do you think so?" Robert replied, glancing at the sky. "A bit gloomy, I grant you – but I live in hope."

The party began to move – traipsing, Mary would sardonically comment – or so Matthew thought smilingly to himself as he strolled next to the Earl. Observing the passing clouds he said, "I wish I could share your enthusiasm, but I fear a thorough soaking will prevent me from getting much enjoyment."

"And were the skies cloudless without a raindrop in sight would you enjoy it then?" Robert shouldered his weapon and smiled. "Or is your presence this morning mostly to humor me?"

"I enjoy the company, and the fresh air. But as for the shooting…I confess since the war I've found little pleasure in it, even for sport."

"Yes," Robert replied, somber. "Yes, of course. I felt the same way when I returned from South Africa." He stared into the horizon, as if seeing a baking plain rather than a dewy lawn, and shook his head. "But in time I was able to let it go, and learn to enjoy the simplicities of life again."

"I sometimes forget you've seen combat." Matthew turned to him with a smile. "Would you be willing to share your secrets?" Robert let out a rueful laugh.

"There's no secret. It takes time, and patience." Ahead he saw his daughter walking side by side with her intended, and his tone became curiously soft and sober. "But mostly it is up to us to push forward, and make the most of our opportunities before they pass us by forever." Matthew failed to notice the Earl's change in mood.

"Forever?" he laughed. "Somewhat overstated, don't you think. If it should rain we could always hunt another day." Robert stopped.

"I wasn't talking about hunting, Matthew."

Matthew's eyes traced the earl's line of sight. Mary's hand was perched into her fiancé's, a strained smile on her lips. They began to walk again, Matthew turning inward, mulling silently, any conclusions he may have drawn hidden from the Earl by the sullen mask Matthew wore like a tribal warrior preparing for battle. But by the time Lynch called out that they had reached the prepared hunting grounds, Matthew, with a new and metallic shine to his face, turned in the direction of Mary and Sir Richard, and moved to join them.

* * *

><p>During the harvest they all had their duties, and hers had been to glean in the fields, trailing after her mother and older sister, heaping piles of barley laden in her hardened arms with hands that were calloused from the dirt and toil of a farmer's life. When she had grown those callouses had remained, but were instead maintained by the coarse dust rags and the constant polishing that came with a housemaid's post.<p>

Whether in a field or a drawing room, those hands had seen a bit of life – a life of work, a life of labor. But despite all the years and experiences those hands had seen, Elsie still felt them unprepared for the burden now placed inside of them, a burden that began when Lady Grantham had entered unexpectedly into her parlor earlier that morning.

"_Lady Grantham? Can I help you with something?" _

"_I should hope so, Mrs. Hughes, since you're the one who wanted to speak with me."_

A peculiar occurrence, for Elsie had wanted nothing of the sort, had not sent anyone requesting the Countess for an audience and had informed her as such.

"_That's odd. O'Brien said that you wanted to see me, that you had some matters to discuss with me?"_

Even more peculiar, until a high pitched and nervous squeak sounded from a crack in the door, explaining it all.

"_I'm sorry, Mrs. Hughes, and I hope you're not angry, but I was the one to do it. I told Miss O'Brien that you wanted to see Lady Grantham in your parlor this morning."_

Daisy Mason. That child was about as sneaky as she was intimidating, and Elsie was more shocked that she'd had the cunning to pull the ruse off than angry over the fact that she had presumed to do it in the first place. Any anger that she did have was quickly put out by what the kitchen maid had to say next.

"_I hope you don't mind, and I promise I didn't mean to eavesdrop, its just that a few days ago I was eating a biscuit, you see, and it dropped and rolled over outside your parlor, and its one of my favorites so I didn't mind if it got a bit dusty, and I went to go look for it and then –"_

"_That's more than enough, Daisy! Now please get on with it."_

"_Well, I heard what you were saying, you see, to Anna about Ethel. And I was thinking and thinking about what could be done. And then it finally came to me, so I talked to Mr. Mason, since he don't have much to do anymore, and he said he'd be glad to take care of little Charlie for Ethel, if you were to give her back the job as housemaid."_

They'd been stunned, the pair of them. That this skittish, waif of a girl had pulled together all the necessary fragments to arrange a solution to the quandary of Ethel had been both surprising and impressive. Elsie knew the decision couldn't be hers, and waited patiently for Lady Grantham to mull the details over before pronouncing her ruling.

"_I feel for Ethel's situation, really I do. To have a girl like her in the house...but if all parties are in agreement, then I see no reason why we couldn't make an allowance. I feel simply awful thinking of the poor girl and her child shivering in some hovel. That said, I understand how awkward it might be for the staff, so I'll leave the final decision up to you, Mrs. Hughes."_

And that's where she'd been left, to sit and consider and view every possible outcome from as many angles as she could. Elsie looked down into her hands, rough and calloused, and though empty, the knowledge that within her palms rested the fate of both Ethel and her baby made them feel heavier than ever.

* * *

><p>The early morning mist had since dissipated, but thick clouds still wrapped the sky above and hunters below in a moist cloak of north England chill, heavy, yet cool and refreshing, the heady stillness peppered with the sharp calls of frightened pheasants and loud bursts of explosions.<p>

Out in the wood the drivers were hard at work, rousing the pheasants into a madcap dash out of their safe, secluded haven to take flight over the short tract of meadow beyond, and straight into the path of seven loaded shotguns. Papa had bagged the first, Matthew the second. Sir Richard had yet to claim his quarry, but not for lack of trying.

"Damn!" he exclaimed after missing another. He glanced down to his weapon with a malevolent smirk, then over to his fiancé, softening the features till he thought them more benign. "Forgive me, my dear. I sometimes let my temper get the best of me when confronted with failure."

"It's always difficult at first," Matthew said kindly. The three were standing apart from the others, their own private copse amidst the acre of low, flat grass. "My first winter in Yorkshire, I must have wasted four dozen rounds before I so much as grazed a feather. I hope I've improved marginally since then." He turned to Mary in application for the verdict.

Suppressing a smile, she gestured to his kill hanging several yards away on Lynch's arm. "You see the evidence before you. I'm sure you can be your own judge." Sir Richard had been preoccupied with reloading, but stopped to look over at Mary, the suspicion on his face as evident as his desire to voice it, and prompting Matthew to run interference.

"Robert tells me you've been looking into other estates around the neighborhood," he said, drawing away the newspaper baron's attention.

"Yes," Sir Richard replied. "And not just Yorkshire. One can hardly know what the future will hold, and I'd like Mary and I to have options if we find that Haxby doesn't suit us."

"But is that likely? It's so close to Downton, and I'm sure Mary would want –"

"As I said, Mr. Crawley: one can hardly know what the future will hold."

Their gazes matched, but were unequally advantaged. Both were predators, but Sir Richard knew he was the one currently in possession of the prey. Lynch's voice carried into their secluded enclave, summoning Sir Richard to a different location to improve his chances of success.

"You'd best listen to him, if you want to have any claim on bragging rights at dinner," Mary told her fiancé.

"Very well," Sir Richard agreed. He departed, but after several paces turned over his shoulder to declare, "I shall continue to endeavor, and dedicate my first kill to you!"

Mary clenched her hands, smiling prettily.

_How fitting._

Matthew barely heard the parting words for now, left to themselves, his eyes and ears were wholly engrossed with her.

"I think he may be trying to impress you," he said.

"Very likely. Though I'm not sure why, as he's already secured my hand."

"And are men only to woo when there is a lady to be won?"

"Most ladies would say 'no', but unfortunately most men would say 'yes', and in our world – and even more unfortunately – that's the only opinion that really matters."

"I hope you would not class me as 'most men.'"

_Steady on_, Mary tried to persuade herself. _Don't let his soft eyes and honeyed tone cloud your resolve. Remember your commitment, and the one he refused to give you_ – and yet she must answer truthfully.

"No. Not at all."

"I'm glad," he breathed, a sigh of relief. Had he been worried? "Your good opinion matters very much to me. Indeed, Mary…_you_ matter very much to me." The honey now dripped off the comb, tempting her to taste, to believe.

The mask crumbled as she beseeched him.

"Matthew, please don't –"

"No, please hear me out. I know it may be wrong to say it, that I have no claim to you, but please, Mary, listen to me!" She was silent, and he considered surrender, but he remembered with what ease of zeal he had fought for Bates, and wondered why he trembled to do the same for her. He steeled himself. "Since moving to Manchester I've come to realize that I...that I've let you down –"

_That I failed you._

"– and not just because of Lavinia. Because of you and what you mean to me. How much – how very much – I still care for you –"

_I still love you._

"– and even though I know I've lost my chance, I want so desperately for you to be happy, and that my greatest wish, above everything, is to help you."

_To save you._

A blast of shot detonated nearby, startling her and cutting off anymore he might have had to say. She dared not speak, and not only because the tight grip of his words had sealed off her throat. Her fiancé was now approaching them, stalking them, carrying in his hand the limp form of his long sought after prize. She swallowed a mouthful of damp air, freeing the passage.

"I think you may be getting the hang of it," she called to him over Matthew's shoulder.

"I hope so. I'd like to think myself a quick study. It's how I got where I am today," he said, raising his quarry aloft in victory. Mary smiled her adulation – duty fulfilled. "I could get used to this," Sir Richard continued once he reached them, and addressing Matthew said, "Perhaps you and I will go together, once Mary and I settle into Haxby and you become Earl. The two of us – neighbors. Now wouldn't that be something?"

In the distance Matthew heard his name bleating softly. Lord Grantham was beckoning him.

"As you said: one can hardly know what the future will hold," Matthew said by way of farewell, leaving the pair to join the Earl.

Carlisle set upon her at once.

"What were you speaking about? With Matthew?" he interrogated, his tone scraping against her as a serrated edge.

"Would you believe me if I said 'hunting?'"

"Don't play with me, Mary." Tenderly he reached out, gently grasped her arm, and squeezed till she visibly flinched. "I'm not a doll to be moved at will, or a paper boat that is easily tossed aside. I'm your fiancé, with the power to ruin you. And don't you ever forget that."

She wrenched away.

"How can I? When you always take such care to remind me?"

The sun was beginning to dip; the drivers were emerging from the wood. The hunt was over, and Sir Richard strolled back to the house, Mary's arm perched in his, while Matthew trailed far behind, empty-handed.

* * *

><p>The silence was pervasive, a restless hush that crawled through the empty corners of the courthouse, till a booming voice sent it scattering.<p>

"Mr. Bates has testified that he visited his late wife the day she was murdered, that he had access to the murder weapon, and that he was upset that Mrs. Bates would not grant him a divorce so he could marry his current wife, Mrs. Anna Bates. In other words: means, motive, and opportunity."

Again the silence teemed, while Mr. Jackson held three fingers aloft in front the assembled jury, emphasizing his final statement with the visual aid. Several members of the jury nodded, their rapt attention giving the unmistakable impression that they were already more than convinced of the defendant's guilt; but the barrister wasn't finished.

"Furthermore, the first officer at the scene has testified that Vera Bates was found dead on the kitchen floor and had recently had company, as evidenced by a nearby table that had been set for two people." The three fingers were subtracted to two, punctuating the point.

"And the fact remains, ladies and gentleman of the jury, that there was only one," and now only one finger remained, "yes, one person who had a motive at all to kill Mrs. Vera Bates." The single finger left on the upraised hand looped through the air in a point to settle on a man in an inmates' apparel, sitting stoically by his lawyer.

"Mr. John Bates."

Quiet murmurings. The high-pitched lilt of agreement. Bellamy whispered something to the defendant, who slowly nodded, his face as impenetrable as the steel cuffs shackling his hands. The judge spoke.

"The prosecution's closing arguments have now ended. We shall break for the holiday, and the trial will resume on Tuesday, December 27th."

* * *

><p>The acute piercing had dulled to a mild throb. Twenty-four pins for her current style, Mary had counted, and it was as though she could feel each one individually sinking into her skull.<p>

"Mary, darling. You look radiant."

"Thank you, Mama. I would say I try, but the truth is I just sit here and let Anna work her wonders with little input from me."

"Don't be so modest," her mother said, leaving her vigil by the doorway to sit upon the bed. "It takes more than a fine dress and a nice hairdo to be charming." No reply was forthcoming, save for the quiet clacking of beads as Mary toyed with her necklace. "Darling…is everything going well? With Sir Richard, I mean," Cora ventured.

"Why do you ask?"

"You seem so withdrawn lately." Still no words, but this time it would be the earrings that were favored with a fiddling. "You don't have to marry him, if you don't feel ready. We could always travel. Granny and I could take you abroad. Would you like that?"

Mary held back a retort, and reached for her gloves, leaving the room with her mother's unspoken fear and pensive gaze hanging after her. She knew what they were doing. Her mother, her butler, her grandmother – even Matthew – working in the background, maneuvering her like a pawn on a chessboard lest she be claimed by the errant black knight.

Along the hall was the soft tread of her footsteps and Sybil's words from the night before:

_I don't regret it. Not now, not ever._

Down the stairs was the clack of her heel on the wooden steps and the comprehension that she would not regret it either, if she took the step she knew she must, if she could brave the difficult path that she saw Anna walk with boldness every morning. It would be painful for a little while, an acute sear to her pride and vanity. But she would survive, the tissue would scar, and she would be called the mistress of her own fate.

Into the drawing room was the laughter of forced gaiety, and the solace of her final decision:

She may never have her Perseus, but she would not be chained to the sea monster, and she was one princess who would at last save herself.

* * *

><p>The moon was full that night. In the garden, away from the yellow glare of electric luminescence, it's silver glow looked particularly fetching and fairy-like, and Lady Mary could almost envision herself a maiden traipsing through a darkened wood, on a quest to deliver a basket of home-baked goods – which scenario would then make Sir Richard a werewolf, perhaps, ready to devour her. He certainly looked the part.<p>

"You do realize what this means, don't you?" he asked her, all but snarling.

"Yes," she replied coolly. A slight tremor betrayed her unease, though she told herself it was only the cold seeping in through her cloak. "And I am prepared for it."

He laughed and closed in upon her.

"And is your family?" he breathed, teeth baring as she stepped back from the hot wind beating into her face.

"We've long given up any pretense of respectability. What's one more scandal after accepting an Irish radical as a member of our family?"

"So that's how it is to be, then?" Her heart was racing while her head turned slowly to one side, viewing the dark, empty air in which no hunter would materialize to slay the wolf and free the maiden. She braced herself. She would be no man's prey.

"Yes. I'm afraid it is."

The faint traces of moonlight were enough to see his mind working double, organizing some type of solution. In the end, he must have decided there was none, for he turned on his heel to leave.

She called after him.

"And am I to receive an early Christmas present, courtesy of your newspapers?" He stopped, angling his body towards her.

"Don't get too excited, Lady Mary. I'm a patient man. You'll receive your Christmas gift right on time."

* * *

><p><em>This is probably the most serious chapter I've written. MM is not my forte, and throwing Carlisle into the mi_x _did not help matters, but hopefully I've done Mary's character justice! Next chapter: the mysteries revealed!_

_I watched a little video about pheasant shooting as research for this chapter. I shall post the link on my profile for any interested parties.  
><em>


	10. Day 10: Revelations

_Well, I didn't make my deadline of finishing this before the X-mas special aired. But I think I can get the last few chapters done before it airs in America, so maybe it slightly counts._

_A big thanks to jadeandlilac for the beta!  
><em>

* * *

><p><strong>Day 10: Revelations<strong>

In an ironic twist of fate, he was actually reading a newspaper when the connection beamed gloriously into his mind like a leprechaun's rainbow.

"I've got it!" Branson cried, shooting up from the chair. "Sybil, I've got it!" His wife was lounging face down in the bed, indulging in the first late morning since the mysterious sickness had rampaged through the estate, and she took little notice of his exuberant tone, which was rather indistinguishable from his triumphantly declaring he had just retrieved her handkerchief from the floor.

"How wonderful," she congratulated into the pillow.

"You don't even know what I'm talking about," came the monotone reply. Was there a trace of, dare she think it, disappointment in his voice? Sybil frowned – highly irregular. "I suppose it doesn't matter," she heard him continue brightly, the soft rustle of fabric alerting her that he was putting on his coat. "I'll be off now, love. I've got to get going and find Lady Edith!"

"Edith…?"

Inch by agonizing inch the head slowly lifted, her ashen complexion and dark, sunken eyes (Sir Anthony had been asking for glasses of water all night) giving the normally fair woman an unfortunate resemblance to the walking undead, which look was no more improved by the deadly glare and curling fingertips that frightened Branson with the striking impression that she was preparing to tear out his murmuring heart.

"Don't worry – it's nothing like _that_! It just has to do with that arms dealer I was telling you about. I needed to ask Lady Edith about something since she came along with me, but I'd much rather have taken you, of course."

The claws retracted.

"Oh!" she said sunnily, and flashed a wistful smile. "I do so wish I could have gone with you – it sounded terribly thrilling! – but I was needed so desperately here."

"Don't think on it, love. You had to do what you had to do. And it's what you do best! We'll have our own adventure once we get back home." He leaned down to plant a hasty kiss on her forehead, and left his wife to collapse gracelessly back into her pillow.

* * *

><p>She'd needed a smoke, but more than that she'd needed an ear. Lucky for her, both desires were usually conveniently met in the same location.<p>

Their usual spot, just around the corner of the back entrance, and Thomas was already there, halfway through his second fag, the first one peaking sharp and white under his polished shoe like the first drop of winter snow. He didn't turn at her approach, and she didn't waste her time with any "hellos", "good mornings" or other such useless mummery before taking her place beside him and snatching for her own pack.

"What you been up to?" he asked as she lit one up.

"How's it any of your concern? I've been busy. That's all you need to know."

"And what's got you in a twist? Lady G forget to give you a biscuit before she sent you back down to play with the other pups?"

"Sod off." Such a perfunctory retort warranted a mildly concerned side-glance. Thomas watched as she let out a low blow and sensed the unease that sharpened her usually prickly demeanor, but he was content to keep quiet, knowing that Sarah would speak in her own good time. A few minutes later she finally did, in a small and disturbingly unsure voice.

"I saw something, when I was out in Givendale the other day. Something to do with Mr. Bates." At Thomas' inquiring eyebrow she went on to clarify. "It was a love child." The second eyebrow joined the first in an expression of incredulity – perhaps admiration? – at the news.

"Bates got himself a lovechild?"

"Of course it's not Bates' lovechild, you pea-brain! But it's somebody's, and it all has to do with that dead wife of his."

"Are you trying to say you know who killed Mrs. Bates?" Sarah gave a brief nod and took another long drag. "So what are you going to do about it?"

"Not sure. That's what I'm trying to figure out." Her head dipped slightly to one side, inclining towards her friend. "If Bates was gone, you'd stay on as valet."

"No guarantee of that."

"But a better chance than if he came back. Think I should let him hang?"

By now both were shrouded in a veil of smoke. Through the haze Thomas watched the handfuls of stray leaves that had somehow eluded the gardeners' rakes flitter about the yard. They soared through the air, carried up and away by forces unseen; but no matter how high they managed to ascend they never escaped the fate of returning back down to the muddy soil. He knew he could give her the answer that was best for him, but he'd long since accepted his lot in life, and instead gave the answer that was best for her.

"That depends," he said. "Even if Bates is gone there's still Anna. You'll have to keep working with her – no way around that – staring into her doey eyes everyday while she weeps her heart out over the bugger." He turned and gave her a calculating stare. "Think you can stand that?"

Glancing down she saw that her cigarette was nearly spent, weak, white tendrils twirling to the sky while remnants of grey ash tumbled onto the wet dirt.

"Can I live with myself, you mean?" She threw down the stub and crushed it forcefully under her toe. "That's the bloody question, now isn't it?" she muttered, rubbing her arms as she walked back inside.

* * *

><p>Edith's nose screwed up in consternation, the look of one who had just smelled something highly disagreeable.<p>

"The crumpled papers? In the crates back at the warehouse? I don't understand, Branson, I thought that was just packaging?"

"Yes, it was. But I was thinking about it and all of the papers – the Hampshire Gazette, the London Standard, a few others I noticed as well – they're all owned by Sir Richard Carlisle."

Edith waved a limp hand back and forth in front of her nose, wafting the ridiculous scent of his nonsense away.

"Sir Richard owns a lot of newspapers. It could mean nothing."

"Maybe. Or it could mean everything," he replied. Her brows knit together in growing alarm at the intensity of his expression, possibly the "Don't Count Your Chickens" look that Sybil so often despaired of in her letters home.

"You don't think – surley you don't suspect – really Branson, you don't actually believe –"

"I don't know what to believe. But I mean to find out."

She pursed her lips nervously. "If you're right, then it seems Mary has had a very lucky escape." And then frowning, asked, "What do you mean to do?"

"I know it's a long chance but there might be something in his room to connect him to the motor company. And anything we do will have to be quick – I heard him mention that he's taking the afternoon train out. We'll get someone to go through his things. Someone who has access to the rooms."

"A servant, then."

"That'd be best." Tilting his head, his eyes flicked to the side while he chewed out the details. "An indoor servant – maybe a maid. They'd have to be completely harmless, someone totally benign. Someone no one would suspect. Someone who would never even be considered capable of deceit."

_Someone like…._

"Me?" Daisy chirped nervously. "You want me to steal something from Sir Richard?" Branson pressed his lips together in evident thought, considering how best to couch his request so as to increase the chances of keeping Daisy's appallingly loose lips sealed.

"Not 'steal', Daisy. You'll be going in to 'light the fires', yes?"

"But I've already lit the fires…"

"Yes, yes but let's say you 'forgot' that you already 'lit the fires' and were just going in to 'make sure'."

There was a weight in Daisy's stomach that was getting heavier with every one of Branson's vigorous head nods. He had been emphasizing words at seemingly random, and Daisy could hardly touch upon his secret drift, much less catch it, all the while wondering why people simply couldn't come right out and say what they meant rather than burying their intentions so far under deeper meaning that she'd need two shovels just to uncover them. But from what she could gather, he was wanting her to do something malicious to Sir Richard, and so she automatically fell back onto her default supposition for any request of that nature.

"…So you want me to poison him?"

"What? No, Daisy! Look, go in, rifle through his papers a bit, see if you can find anything linking him to the Cooperton Motor company, and if anyone sees you just tell them you were lighting the fires."

He was nodding again, hoping to impart some measure of understanding by his usual tactic of sheer, unyielding will, and had thought he'd finally accomplished it when Daisy's head began to mirror his own, bobbing in time with his, a loopy grin peeling onto her face. He let out a breath of success, which action summarily dropped her smile and furrowed her brow.

"…but I've already lit the fires…"

* * *

><p>"Could you be happy without him?" The question was simple enough to answer, but its speaker caused Anna to look up askance, turning up one corner of her mouth in a nonchalant smile in an attempt to disguise her distrust.<p>

"That's an odd question, coming from you," she said with forced airiness.

"I don't care if it's odd, just answer it." She remained wary, but the frankness in O'Brien's eyes, devoid of any underlying hints of duplicity, satisfied Anna enough to answer honestly.

"No. No I couldn't be happy."

"You couldn't move on? Find someone with prospects a sight better than Bates'?"

The question wasn't an unfamiliar one to Anna, who had been forced on many sleepless nights to contemplate the same thing herself, tossing and turning a myriad of futures that didn't involve John roughly about in her mind, only to settle on the same, distressing conclusion each time:

She was in love with John Bates, and would never love another.

For a few seconds the air stood silent, while Anna considered how best to describe the anchors tying down her heart.

"It's like…if you had a pet rabbit, and that rabbit was sent to China, you wouldn't just stop thinking about the rabbit – no – you would pray for that rabbit every day, that it wouldn't get turned into stew."

O'Brien's jaw slackened, and while her stomach fluttered with the bubbles of mirth popping within she drew upon every fiber of her indifferent nature to keep the laughter from bursting into Anna's face. Mrs. Bates was a passionate and loyal woman, no proofs to the contrary, but she could stand to brush up on her metaphors.

For her part, O'Brien didn't work with metaphors, preferring to face facts with cool and calculated acumen. Life was harsh, and she well knew the penalties the could be meted out for a single error: a permanent sear with guilt's painful brand that would mark her forever. Would there ever be absolution, she had asked herself in quiet moments of despair. A wounded but healing voice – Mr. Andrew Lang – had once tried to explain how there could be:

_It's all about letting go, of the guilt, the pain, the anger – everything. If we keep it in, it'll destroy us…_

She'd been nearly destroyed already, by that fatal mistake which cost a life, and a piece of her own heart to die along with it. She may never like Mr. John Bates, but she knew she did not want another life on her hands; and after nearly eight years of dedicated resentment, she felt it was finally time to let go. Quickly she left Anna's side and moved toward the stairs, ascending them with rapid steps.

"Where are you off to in such a hurry?" Anna shouted up to her retreating form. Sarah paused a moment to look back, the beginnings of a smile attacking her nearly immovable scowl.

"To see Mr. Crawley."

* * *

><p>Sir Richard was holed up with Lord Grantham. The room would be still and silent, save for the crackling fire that she'd lit hours and hours earlier. Of course, forgetful, dopey Daisy would not have remembered that.<p>

_Or would I?_ she teased herself with a wide grin, feeling mighty clever.

Slipping undetected into the room, her eyes strayed onto the half filled biscuit jar on the nightstand – odd, usually nobody ever ate those – and her hand instinctively stretched to remove the lid and tamper with the delectable bite sized snacks within. She brushed one mischievous finger over the first biscuit before Mr. Branson's specific instructions and prohibitions sprang into her mind, and she snatched back her hand.

_No, no, Daisy! _she scolded herself. Not_ poison him!_

Through cautious, narrowed eyes she carefully examined the layout of the room, unsure why she was doing so, for she knew it well enough to know exactly where everything was. She heaved a sigh at her needless dramatics, and walked over to the writing desk where countless stacks of paper bowed the fragile furniture dangerously. Daisy relieved some of the burden by lifting up the closest stack, and thumbed through the papers filled with numbers, symbols and so many, many words.

Hastily she shuffled through, searching for any sign of the Cooperton Motor Company. A steady ticking from the mantle kept her acutely aware of the passing minutes as she continued her ruffling, and after a quarter of an hour she left the room, a single sheet of paper folded neatly and tucked securely into her apron pocket.

* * *

><p>Dinners were still terribly thin, though marginally less awkward since the first day of their guests' arrival. Both contributed to ease Cora's anxiety, but Mary's news this morning and Sir Richard's subsequent departure that afternoon had rattled her.<p>

"I still can't believe Mary went through with it," she told her husband from the vanity. Robert folded down the paper from his place at the bed to better view his wife.

"Believe it or not, she has," he said. "And to be perfectly honest I'm very glad of it." She returned her husband's delighted smile. He certainly looked thrilled, and Cora could tell that despite Mary's severed engagement there were still hypothetical wedding bells, this time with perhaps a different groom, ringing in Robert's mind.

Cora gripped the handle of her hairbrush. She could not be as pleased as Robert, who knew nothing of the secret that had shadowed their family for nearly a decade. Raising the brush to the crown of her head, she ran the bristles lazily through her hair, asking lightly, "What was Sir Richard talking to you about for so long?"

"He was hoping I would talk some sense into Mary. He told me – and these are his exact words – that our family would very much regret the way we'd treated him."

"What?" she asked, stiffening. He tossed the newspaper aside completely.

"Absurd, I know. The audacity of the man, threatening us like that. As if he holds any power over us."

Within her heart thumped frantically, real dread accelerating the organ to as yet unknown speeds. Their relationship was still delicate, though recently had begun to slowly repair. There was sweetness again, warmth and friendliness to replace the cool and detachment that had plagued their marriage since the war. But Robert was unaware of the danger they were now treading, only a hairsbreadth away from unearthing a secret, a secret she had withheld from him for so long, one that could dismantle everything they had begun to rebuild.

And Mary. What of Mary?

The concerns of mother and wife were drowning her, and Cora attempted to steer the conversation to matters less perilous. Underneath a box of pins was the note from Murray she had been tasked to deliver, and she slipped it out with, "I'd been meaning to ask – what was it that you went to see Murray about last week?"

His eyes jerked up, wide and startled – a fox who'd just been cornered by the hounds.

"What? Why? Why do you ask? Has anyone told you anything?" Cora's mouth fell open.

"There's no reason, Robert! I was only curious. I like to know what my husband gets up to, is that so wrong?"

"No, no. Of course not," he clipped out. Composing himself, he took up his paper again, concealing his face he while added, "I went to see my man of business to discuss the state of our finances, that's all."

Cora narrowed her eyes at the rustling paper, disturbed at how her innocuous question, rather than alleviating her unease, had only multiplied it. She slipped the letter into her pocket, rising.

"I think I'll read for a bit in my boudoir until bed."

"Very well," was his succinct reply, but before she left the room he peered over the paper and said, "I'll wait up for you," with something of his old smile about his lips.

She smiled weakly in return, Murray's letter resting like leaden blocks in her pocket, and softly shut the door behind her.

* * *

><p>Matthew swiveled his head from side to side, desperately hoping no one would chance to walk by at the exact moment his colleague was barreling at the door in demonstration of his inner gorilla.<p>

"Open, open, open, I say! Open up this door at once!" Bellamy cried, striking out a hard bang with every overly-enunciated syllable. Matthew longed for a banana to calm his friend down, but opted for a more homo-sapien approach.

"Really, Bellamy! I understand there's a cold-blooded murder on the loose, but there's no need for shouting!" Bellamy glared at Matthew, muttering something vaguely abusive about estate lawyers under his breath, when the door finally opened to reveal a white-capped, glowering maid.

Matthew was the natural diplomat, and took the lead in explaining their presence so late at night at the judge's personal residence. Distrustful, but irritated enough to dispense with matters well above her pay grade, the maid allowed them entrance and brought them to the library.

"Mr. Bellamy this is quite unorthodox!" the judge cried. "The courts are closed and it's nearly midnight!"

"I demand that you hear me out! I absolutely demand it!" Bellamy would have gladly gone on naming his demands, were it not for Matthew's clear sightedness to lay the facts out before they were summarily tossed out of the premises.

"Listen here, Mr. Turner, John Bates is innocent, and we have the evidence to prove it!" A slip of paper, a letter, was shoved point blank under the judge's pince-nez. His eyes crossed to read the missive, and then widened once he had perceived its implications.

"Call for the constable!" the judge yelled to his butler. "Tell them to send two officers to Downton Abbey at once!"

* * *

><p>Thomas had been lurking in the hall, waiting for the opportune moment. The first footman scuttled in through the back door, and didn't notice the prowler in the shadows till it was far too late.<p>

"Hank, isn't it?" Thomas asked, stepping into the light. The footman froze at the voice, and slowly faced his captor.

"No, actually, its –"

"Doesn't matter," Thomas interrupted, backing the footman into a corner till all escape routes were cut off. He cocked his head to one side, enjoying with a measure of sadistic glee how profusely the first footman was beginning to sweat. "So, you like to spend time with the cocks, then?"

"I – what?"

"Cocks. You're fond of them, yeah?"

"I'm…I'm not sure what you're getting at Mr. Barrow."

"Oh, I think you do. I think you know exactly what I'm talking about." Thomas bore into the increasingly frightened face till the features molded themselves into dawning comprehension.

"You mean…you mean the fights –?" Any further confession was stopped by the clack of a heel descending the stairs. Mrs. Branson looked surprised to find anyone still in the hall this late at night, asked to be forgiven for the intrusion, and informed them that she had just stepped down to make herself a cup of tea.

"No need to apologize, milady," the footman assured, brushing by her with a brief bow.

"Oh, there's no need for that, Ha…Harold?" The question trailed after the young man, who with great speed clambered up the stairs, and with even greater speed was dismissed entirely by Mrs. Branson. "You're up late, Thomas. Everything all right?" she asked. When he nodded politely she asked, curious, "What were you talking to the new footman about?"

"Nothing, milady."

"Please, Thomas, as I said: there's no need to bother with all that nonsense. I'm nearly one of you now, aren't I?" Thomas gave her a once over. Eight months of a common life in Dublin had hardened the surface a bit, but she was still the soft and cushy lady to him, and always would be. Nevertheless, he'd always liked Sybil Crawley, and he was sure he could learn to like Mrs. Branson just as well.

"All right, then, I'll tell you – but because you're you, not because of who you married." He leaned in closer to spill the news. "The two new footmen have been involved in some bad dealings in the village. Cock fighting."

"Cock fighting?" she repeated breathlessly, her mind whirring.

"Strange business, that. Not quite to my tastes – rather unrefined way to score some cash, if you ask me – but it explains why the footmen are always so tired."

"It explains much more than that!" she exclaimed. "Sir Anthony, Viscount Brankson, Lily, the second footman…" Her eyes glittered like sapphires in the sun, and Thomas was close to suggesting that the sleep deprivation had at last gotten the best of her ladyship when the list of seemingly random names percolated through his mind and he recognized their common link.

"You mean all the ones who've taken ill?"

"Yes, exactly!"

"You mean to say that all this sickness is from the footmen? Contaminating the food?" He brandished a skeptical look. "I find that hard to believe."

"Oh, really? So you're telling me you don't stick your grimy hands into our food before serving it to us?" His skeptical look morphed into something more reminiscent of unease, as Thomas just then found the tops of his shoes particularly fascinating.

"I see Mr. Branson's been a bit loose with our secrets since you two have gotten hitched."

"Don't be ridiculous! Tom told me all about your dirty little secrets _long_ before we ever married." Thomas only just controlled his double take, and chalked up another validation for his endless pursuit of humiliating Branson. "But just think of it, Thomas," she continued animatedly. "Salmonella, Listeria…an endless list of bacteria that could have been snuck into the food!"

Thomas found it rather strange that Lady Sybil should be getting so excited over possible death inducing microbes, but then remembered that she was also the girl who willingly chose to marry Tom Branson. With a sparkle in her eyes, an upraised fist, and, if Thomas listened very closely, the barest tinge of a lilt to her voice (he was infecting her already), she declared, "I must see Dr. Clarkson at once!" and went bounding up the stairs.

* * *

><p>In the privacy of her boudoir, she read:<p>

_Lord Grantham-_

_Because you have asked me to communicate any further assistance given to Mrs. Moorsum, I am writing to inform you that she visited our offices yesterday morning with a request for two pounds in order to purchase new school clothes for Frederick._

_Sincerely,_

_John Murray_

The image of Robert's startled face, which she now acknowledged contained heavy doses of guilt, was inexorably linked to his last visit to London, his visit to Murray, his visit which had produced the letter resting gently in her lap. Robert had gone to London in regards to Mrs. Moorsum, that much was clear, but why not discuss with her his intentions? Why shutter his confidence and raise his defenses at the mildest inquiry? The most obvious answer jumped readily forth and sat teasingly close to her nose, taunting her with the failures of wife and companion she ascribed to her name; but she refused to embrace it, not until she knew for certain exactly what place Jane Moorsum held in her husband's life.

* * *

><p>Carson sipped at his nightcap, soaking in the details of Mrs. Hughes' unenviable predicament.<p>

"I'm still undecided. On the one hand are Ethel and Charlie, and what's best for them. But how can I be sure of Ethel after the behavior that got her into this mess in the first place? And to have her about the house, influencing the other girls…"

"You're worried, of course, and with good reason. But trust in your instincts, Mrs. Hughes. They're impeccable, just as your judgment in people."

"Even where Lady Mary is concerned?" she asked coyly. He issued a low chuckle.

"We'll leave that topic well enough alone, if you please, especially at this time of night." True to Carson's word the topic was dropped, but not out of any submission from Mrs. Hughes, for at that moment the conversation ended entirely when they both heard the sound of a tinkling bell: someone was at the front door.

They shared a bewildered glance, and briskly made their way to the entrance together.

"What is the meaning of this?" Carson bellowed at the half-dozen blue-uniformed men wielding badges, sticks, and a set of determined faces.

"We've got a warrant for an arrest!" the head officer explained, handing the housekeeper an official looking document, which she hastily perused.

"Well, I never! Come, gentleman, I'll take you upstairs directly." Up the servant's spiral they raced in time with Mrs. Hughes' heart. Upon reaching the correct room –third door on the left along the maiden's corridor – she swung open the door, hand scrambling against the darkened wall. Flickering on the light, she stood gaping at the room in which only one bed was occupied. "Lily? Where is –"

"Lord Hepworth's room," the maid answered, groggily rising from the sheets as she rubbed away the bleariness. A look could speak a thousand words, and right now everyone's faces blared the same message at the shockingly knowledgeable housemaid. "Am I the only one with a set of working eyes in this place?" she grumbled. Everyone still stared with wide-eyed confusion, prompting her to shout, "They're having an affair!" with weary exasperation.

Mrs. Hughes quickly turned at Lily's revelation, a string of men in her wake, and led them downstairs to Lord Hepworth's room – fourth door on the right down the bachelor's corridor – and barged on through only to find Marigold Shore and Lady Rosamund's assiduous suitor in a less than decorous position.

Hepworth giggled. Mrs. Hughes gasped. Mr. Carson rumbled something involving the overall lack of shame, and the officers pushed in, the one in lead shouting in a clear and loud voice:

"Marigold Shore, you are under arrest for the murder of Vera Bates!"


	11. Day 11: Confessions

_Many thanks to jadeandlilac and AriadneO for betaing this behemoth of a penultimate chapter!_

* * *

><p><strong>Day 11: Confessions<strong>

She was steadfast in her petulance, suffusing the room with a thick tension till the air reeked of it, and dispersed when a large hand smacked against the table with a resounding thump.

"We've been at this all morning, Miss Shore. We know what you've done. All that is left is for you to sign the confession."

"Never!" she snarled. Golden curls hung limply about her face, dark bags detracting from the natural beauty of her deep, amber eyes. "I've done nothing and you can't prove a thing!"

"Shall we lay down the facts once more?" The detective leaned back from the table, retracting his hand from its surface to tick off the evidence as he laid it out before her. "You worked for Lord and Lady Flintshire at the same time as Vera Bates, were known to be well acquainted with her, were seen leaving her residence on the day of the murder, and what's more – there's this!" he exclaimed, brandishing an elegantly penned letter, the contents of which were already well known to those exhausted amber eyes.

_My Dearest Marigold,_

_You cannot imagine my relief when I received your letter last. Can words ever express my devotion, my gratitude that you have at long last rid us of that odious creature, Vera Bates? Our secret will be safe, thanks to your capable hands and brilliant mind. The loose ends have all been neatly tied, I believe. I have conferred with Mrs. Marshall in Givendale and have made arrangements for Katherine's continued maintenance and, as you have requested, this will be my last letter to you. As usual your judgment is impeccable – our correspondence has become far too dangerous – but know this: you are the light of my life, the beacon of joy in my heart, and I shall devotedly remain,_

_Yours Forever,_

_Shrimpy_

Marigold Shore breathed her vehemence, nostrils flaring as she parted her lips to speak.

"Before you say another word," he forestalled, "know that we already have officers ransacking Lord Flintshire's London residence for anything that will tie you and him to the murder."

Her inner fire briefly stoked at the warning, and for a moment she shone, eyes burning with the lucent glow of desperation. But then the words pierced through, her form began to tremble; the strained, defiant visage softened to the point of melting, and at long last the proud flower withered.

"Vera caught us out," she cried with an anguished sob. "She found out about the affair, the child, and threatened to expose us, so he paid her off to keep quiet." She looked up then, eyes wild. "But she kept wanting more and more! I'd have never gotten another post and his career would have been ruined. So yes, I killed her. Met her at her own home and poisoned her tea – and I'm not sorry for it! Did the world a favor if you ask me!"

Behind the one-way mirror Bellamy folded his arms in satisfaction.

"Have you seen enough?" he asked the officer standing next to him.

"Yes," the officer nodded and turned to another uniform just behind. "Call the prison. Tell the warden that Mr. Bates is to be released at once!"

* * *

><p>There was a heavenly smell wafting from the pot. Bubbling inside was the first and last meal she would be cooking for the day: a spot of porridge for the servants' breakfast. The aroma was distinctly familiar, and as Mrs. Patmore waved the scent into her nostrils, relishing the pleasant odor of culinary perfection with Mr. Carson hovering faux-casually behind her, it dawned on her with smug delight just exactly what it reminded her of.<p>

It smelled like…vindication!

After a few more silent stirs she at last deigned to speak to the butler.

"Come over to apologize, I presume?"

"I'm not sure an apology is owed," he disdained and followed it with a dignified harrumph to her suddenly stiff back. Mrs. Patmore sniffed airily and resumed her snubbing, prompting Carson to lower his defenses. "Come now, Mrs. Patmore, don't be difficult. After what Dr. Clarkson told us at to the nature of the illness, what else could I have done?"

"You could have had a little faith in me, that's what you could have done!"

Carson sighed in defeat. She was right. Several decades working alongside this woman and she'd never once made so egregious an error. He should have trusted her, and with no small measure of wounded pride he opened his mouth to testify to the fact.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Patmore. I should have trusted you, and searched for other causes to the illness that did not include your impeccable cooking skills." The spoon lulled in its vigorous stirring as Beryl turned around, a triumphant smirk etched onto her face.

"Apology accepted, Mr. Carson."

Mrs. Patmore returned to her labor while Carson collected the remaining fragments of his dignity and carried them up the staircase, entering the gallery just in time to join every other head in swinging swiftly to the door, eyes fixed on Lord Grantham as he burst through, his face aglow.

"Wonderful news, everyone! I've just got off the phone with the Ripon police – Bates has been cleared of all charges!"

The assembled gathering cheered at the news, master and servant alike, for today was Christmas Eve, the day of penultimate festivities, the day of the annual servants' ball, and the day on which said servants were given reprieve from their duties to partake in the fun – which unfortunately now presented quite a problem for the Earl, whose eyebrows knitted together as he muttered over the logistics.

"We'll need someone to pick him up from the Ripon prison. Jones has the day off, and Edith…" his eyes strayed dubiously to his middle daughter handling both her suitors like a master juggler, "…. seems rather occupied at the moment." He'd been speaking quietly, mostly to himself, and was surprised when a voice came from behind.

"I could pick him up, if you like." Robert spun around to see his son-in-law, still and brittle as a windowpane and looking rather poised to chuck himself out the nearest one he could find. Robert spoke softly, lest the former chauffeur would shatter.

"That's…that's very kind of you, Branson." At his words Branson relaxed into something more flesh-like, and he gave that lopsided smile, the one that had never failed to charm the Earl on many a long car ride, no matter how bombastic its bearer's political views may have been. Robert felt a morsel of warmth invade his heart. "Very kind of you, indeed!"

"Right then. I'll go 'round the garage and fetch the car. It shouldn't take very long to get Mr. Bates and bring him back here."

Robert smiled his approval, clasping his hand around the young man's shoulder, and effectively undoing any of Branson's previously achieved tranquility. "I know we've had our differences, Branson," he said, his tone reflective, "but there's no denying that Sybil is happy with you. And while it may be strange to think it, the fact remains that upon your marriage to my daughter you've also become…my son."

"Um….yes, m'lord. I suppose I have," Branson replied doubtfully, unsuccessful in his attempt to surreptitiously detach himself out of the Earl's grasp. It was surprisingly vise-like, and the entire scenario had already skipped a few yards past surreal, with the Earl gazing at him in a way that was strangely…sentimental. Branson felt a presence lean in close behind him.

"Don't worry," Matthew whispered in his ear. "You get used to it."

* * *

><p>Two slabs of narrow wood, bright white and glistening with the morning's dew, and nailed perpendicular to mark the tomb of her late husband. It had been eight months since she could bring herself to face the epitaph – <em>William Mason<em>, in bold, black lettering, painted across the horizontal plank – but she was here now, and had resolved that the next visit would not be so long in coming.

"So Mrs. Hughes has decided," Daisy told him. "She's going to let Ethel stay on, and your father will watch little Charlie. He's to come by tomorrow for Christmas lunch to meet Ethel and the baby. He's so very excited, William. I can't remember the last time he'd sounded so!"

She grinned brightly – the first confession was the easy part – but her smile began to wane as she knelt down into the wet grass, unmindful of the patches of moisture that bled into her stockings, her throat suddenly and painfully parched.

"But the truth is William, I… I wasn't always honest with you. I know you loved me, though I never could figure out why, and I know you thought I loved you." She closed her mouth and swallowed a mouthful of dry air. "But I didn't! – at least, not in the way you wanted me to. You were my friend, and I did care for you, but I didn't love you like a wife ought to have, and I'm sorry, because you had a right to know the truth."

She'd held back her tears rather bravely for most of the admission, but her voice finally cracked and they spilled out forcefully as she cried for her friend; for they were friends, she knew – _always_, William had once said, before the world spun backwards and tossed their young lives into chaos. And all he had wanted was to do right by her.

She wiped her eyes.

"And I'd like to think I've done right by you, William – by all of them – in the end."

Her head tilted up to the sky.

"I think I have," she said to the shrouded sun, and when she looked back down at the cross bearing his name, she smiled.

_I know I have._

* * *

><p>Two-dozen temporary staff had been hired for the event, and the long gallery, glittering Christmas tree anchored to its core, had been easily altered into a commodious dance hall. The walls were lined with small tables clothed in elegant fabrics and adorned with flickering votives, and it was at one of these, tucked away in the back, that Lady Rosamund sat sipping her refreshment, unusually quiet – and to the eyes of her mother sitting just beside, disturbingly deflated.<p>

"You can begin your gloating whenever you choose, Mama." Violet started at the sudden and bitter speech.

"I usually find it preferable to start at the beginning of a conversation rather than jumping right into the middle, but if you'd be so good as to inform me exactly what it is you're talking about, I may just have the pleasure of comprehending you."

"Don't pretend not to understand," Rosamund replied exasperatedly. "You were right, of course. Lord Hepworth was more interested in my bank accounts than any of my other assets, with the one exception of my lady's maid," she ended sourly, looking downcast into the hands folded in her lap. "He had no interest in me, and you may as well go on and tell me what a fool I've been."

"You must consider me a poor mother indeed if you think I take any pleasure in my children's suffering," Violet replied, the tenderness in her voice cracking through her daughter's veneer. Rosamund blinked away the moisture licking her eyes, but her jaw still trembled slightly as she spoke.

"I liked him, Mama. I really thought there was a chance. A chance to finally…. have someone."

Violet extended her hand to clutch at her daughter's, patting it fondly. "My dear Rosamund. There's no shame in being swindled. It happens to the best of us."

Rosamund was not yet consoled enough to smile, but let her mother stroke at her hand gently as they sat together in silence. While sincere and companionable, it was something that neither party ever indulged in for long, and soon their quiet moment was interrupted by a request from his Lordship's valet.

"Yes, Thomas?" the Dowager asked.

"Milady," he bowed. "I thought I'd ask for a dance from the only rational person in the room." Violet chuckled.

"My, my. It's been sometime since these old bones have had a rousing." He helped her out of the seat and led her to the dance floor.

She leaned into his strong and dapper arms. "Congratulations are in order, I believe. I hear your resourcefulness has saved us all from horrid and sundry forms of chicken infection."

"I suppose I have, though I can't say I did it alone. Had a bit of help from above," he said with a look so keen and pointed Violet could almost see the implied tapping of the nose. "How did you know, milady?"

She sniffed.

"I never disclose my secrets and it's abominably rude to even ask."

Behind them Matthew squirmed in Mrs. Patmore's all-encompassing grip, the idea of comfort a far and hopeless dream.

"So I take it you enjoy cooking?" he verily squeaked. She responded by gripping his shoulders tighter and bestowing another snuggle into his firm chest.

"Oh, I enjoy many things, Mr. Crawley, _many_ things!"

Beside them Isobel and Dr. Clarkson were passing just close enough to overhear the exchange. Smothering her laugh, Isobel moved on to engage in one of her most cherished past times: unabashed gloating.

"So you relented in the end, and gave Nurse Branson the recommendation?"

"Yes, yes," Richard conceded tiredly, his eyes rolling to the ceiling. "How could I not, after she proved herself by solving the mystery as to the source of the illness?"

"Anyone might have guessed it if they knew about the footmen's activities."

"Perhaps," he agreed, but then frowned. "But perhaps not. Either way she showed herself a quick thinker, and I felt it warranted a little more faith from me."

"Indeed it did, and I'm very glad you've finally pulled your head out of the cigar smoke long enough to see reason," she finished smugly, earning herself another melodramatic eye roll.

They drew imperceptibly closer, both musing on their mutual ability to alternately please and aggravate each other with equal ease, and wondering just how long this delicate dance would continue.

* * *

><p>Outside the Ripon post office, both the car and John Bates had been left idling, and as Branson approached and climbed into the driver's seat, Bates proffered a friendly smile.<p>

"All finished with your business, Mr. Branson?"

"Sorry about that," Branson said, slamming the door. "I just had to make a quick phone call for an article I'm working on." He looked over to his passenger. "Ready to set off?"

"I am. But I was wondering – if it wouldn't be too much trouble, of course – if we could take a short detour?" Bates had been skimming the paper the entire length of the trip, and had it opened now to the classified page. Shoving it into Branson's face, he pointed out an address circled in thick, black ink. "I know it's a sight out of the way, but it's important I get there. Do you think you can get us there and back to Downton before the servants' ball ends?" Branson peered at the advert with ever widening eyes. "Will you be able to find it?" Bates wondered aloud, recalling their lack of maps.

Branson grinned. "Don't worry, Mr. Bates. I think I can manage," he said with more than a little irony, and turned the steering wheel to direct the motor due North.

* * *

><p>Above the swirling sets of dancers the violins sang, mellow tones resonating off the high walls of the hall, girded beneath by the low and steady rhythm of cello and bass. The small string choir sat nestled into one corner, providing ample space for the couples to glide along the floor betwixt the streaming flow of notes and melodies.<p>

In the middle of the floor stood a heart that was full to bursting with the joy to be found in song and dance (a much greater joy than that found in sickrooms and bickering medical personnel), his soft tenor demanding that such happiness be remarked upon.

"Lovely music! Lovely evening!"

Edith smiled into the face of her partner. She took in the wrinkled visage, perhaps unappealing to others her age, but all she could see was kindness in every crease, only serving to magnify the warmth of his perpetual smile.

"Yes," she replied. "It's one of my favorite events all year." She paused to observe the passing sets of couples, musing, "Though it does seem somewhat strange, that I should feel more comfortable dancing with the servants than those of my own set."

His smile climbed several degrees. "I don't find it strange at all. It's much easier to relax with those we see everyday than the perfect stranger, I dare say."

"I suppose you're right. Though I must say –" Her words cut off as he spun her again. When she was secured once more in his arms, she looked at him deeply. "I'm feeling very relaxed right now," she admitted, breathless.

They stared intently, held captive by the mirrored images of complete rapture that were only to be surpassed by the complete indifference of their neighboring dancers.

"Do you not care for dancing, Lady Sybil?" Carson asked his lackadaisical partner, struggling to haul her limp form about the floor.

"I used to enjoy it very much, rather. But I suppose it's lost most of its appeal now," she answered, sneaking a quick glance at the door through which no errant husbands emerged, and sighed. "And to be honest there was only one servant I ever cared to dance with."

Mary craned her neck an inch to the left, and smiled to see her youngest sister and favorite butler. Resting in Matthew's arms, and with the knowledge that Sir Richard was far enough away that his own arms could not reach her, she let the façade slip away till unabashed delight spread like melting snow across her face.

"Cousin Isobel told me about Dr. Clarkson's change of heart regarding Sybil. It looks as though we'll have a doctor in the family after all!" she said almost giddily.

"Good for Sybil. I've always admired her spirit."

"Have you?" One dark, neat eyebrow arched in challenge. "I remember a time when your feelings for her seemed to go beyond that, enough to knock a man down, even."

"Then you have a faulty memory. It was only ever admiration with her. I'd knock any man down that deserved it, regardless of whether or not there was a lady in question." She laid her head against his chest as the tempo slowed, the dulcet hum of the strings infusing the mood with a sense of peace and grace. "Besides," he added softly, "my affections were already firmly settled elsewhere." Mary lifted her head to meet his eyes.

"There are other things I remember – our last dance together," she said quietly. A grimace flashed across his face.

"I prefer to forget that," he admitted, shaking his head as if to loosen the cords of memory from his mind. "I was abominable. Unforgivable."

"Perhaps. Though it gave me an opportunity to learn how to be forgiving. And now…" her voice faltered as she took a steadying breath. "And now I feel it is time I give you the chance to do the same."

"What do you mean?" She was silent, her eyes locked on a spot over his shoulder. "Come Mary, don't tease me. There's nothing you've done which could possibly require forgiveness from me."

Mary shut tight her eyes and forced out her next, reluctant words.

"No, Matthew, there is something. You'll find out soon enough what it is I have to tell you, and better that you hear it from my own lips than through another source."

In confusion he followed her out the door, the very door which Sybil's eager gaze had once been searching, the very door that Anna's anxious eyes had been cleaving to all night long. Lost in thoughts of _him_, the head housemaid appeared somewhat dazed when O'Brien's query suddenly burst into her reverie.

"Why aren't you dancing?" O'Brien asked. After a few blinking moments Anna was recovered enough to answer.

"Why aren't you?" she snapped back testily.

"I hate to dance; it's no secret. But everyone knows you love it." Smirking, she tipped her head to the table beside them. "I think the second footman is looking for a partner. Fancy a bout of salmonella?" A bit of levity might have been just the thing to take the edge off of Anna's nerve, but for the identity of its harbinger.

Anna eyed the lady's maid in distrust.

"I know what you're trying to do Miss O'Brien, though I'm not sure why."

"I'm not as nasty as you think me –" O'Brien began, but her tart defense was cut off by an excited, red-haired flurry of limbs and grins.

"Ethel!" Anna cried, standing to hug her reinstated co-worker.

"Charlie's sleeping so I thought I'd drop by for a bit." Sweeping her large green eyes around the room she gushed, "The servants' ball! Haven't been to one of these in ages. Wonder if one of the footmen would be up to a dance…"

"Mrs. Hughes told us about the arrangement," O'Brien said. "Must say I was pleased to hear it." Ethel raised a disbelieving eyebrow, crossing her arms.

"Were you?" she snipped.

"Does the whole of England think me a heartless harpy? What, that I can't be happy that someone won't starve out in the street, or that Bates won't be hanging for a crime he didn't commit?"

The reference to the valet was strangely providential, or so O'Brien would later consider, for it was only a few seconds after that when John Bates himself, for the first time in nearly eight months, stepped into the long gallery of Downton Abbey.

Anna jumped to her feet.

"Mr. Bates?"

Her body swayed dangerously. She had known this moment was nigh, but at its arrival felt such a contradiction of powerful joy and utter disbelief that she nearly toppled over. She clutched at the chair she'd just quitted as he called back to her, great strides sending him quickly to her side.

"Anna!"

"Mr. Bates!"

The music lulled as husband and wife came together, every body slowed to a standstill and giving the surreal impression that time itself had stopped to honor the reunion.

The world fell away; Bates brushed it aside as he held his Anna, a free man. She was crying, laughing, while his hand stroked over her hair like raindrops down a leaf.

"Our happy ending," she whispered.

"Is it everything you imagined it?"

"No…no….no…." The word tumbled out of her mouth and into his chest, over and over and over, a mantra. She sniffed and tilted her head to his face. "It's so much more!"

When their lips met her heart took flight, his breath and nearness cutting through the strings of fear and pain that had long moored it down. They fell to the distance, shrinking into nothing, forgotten. Only love remained – the promise of a lifetime filled with each other – and a shared joy so all consuming as to render both deaf to the thunderous applause ringing throughout the hall.

* * *

><p>Her eyes were not on him. Standing in the garden, she admired the dying blooms, marveling at the rapidity with which something once so fair and lively could soon decay back into the earth. Her hands itched for occupation, and she took to her old habit, toying with the necklace that lay cold against her skin, the fragile jewelry seeming a fitting emblem for her life – a series of glass beads strung together with delicate thread – and with every second he stood still and silent she felt the string snapping, and the pearls of her life shatter one by one onto the cobbled steps below.<p>

None remained unbroken by the time he chose to speak.

"Kemal?" he finally said. "Kemal Pamuk?" Every fiber of Matthew was confused, agitated. His voice betrayed it readily, for he took no pains to hide it. "I don't understand, Mary. That was…what, six years ago?"

"Seven," she corrected.

"Seven." The information sank in, robbing him of a few more moments' speech. "He came into your room and…I'm not sure I understand what you're trying to tell me, Mary." Mary suppressed a groan, wishing for once that Matthew could be more cunning than noble and spare her the need to make her discretion any plainer.

"Oh, Matthew! He died…in my bed. How much clearer do I need to be for you to understand?" His eyes were everywhere but her, his gloved hands frantic and fidgety, his mind processing.

"I see," he said. "Forgive me, I – I'm not quite sure what to say."

Mary closed her eyes.

_Say you love me._

"You need not apologize to me," she said crisply.

_Say you forgive me._

"You need not say anything at all."

_Say there is nothing to forgive._

"It was unfair of me to burden you with my affairs, and of course I know it must come as a shock."

"Yes. Quite a shock," he nodded, lost. He took several paces away. "I need…I need some time, Mary."

"Of course you do."

Unbidden the tears sprung, stinging her eyes like a splash of vinegar; and whether he noticed them or not he left her all the same, to her sorrow, to her wretchedness, and to the first flakes of snow that began to trail slowly to the earth.

* * *

><p>It was the last clumsy twirl she could possibly take before her patience ran thin enough to tell her husband that the informal dancing lessons she gave him back in Dublin had obviously not been effective in saving her poor toes from a thorough trampling.<p>

"So…I'm not good?" Branson asked.

"Well…you're not _terrible_," Sybil conceded generously.

"I suppose that's something. But I still wouldn't call this lazy swaying about anything like real dancing."

"Oh, darling," she groaned, burying her face into his chest. "Promise me you'll spare us all a sample of what you and your kind call 'real dancing'." She felt his chest rumble beneath her cheek while he laughed, and she began to giggle as well, before looking up at him, eyes shining.

"I love you, did you know?" she said.

"I've had my suspicions."

"Only, I don't say it very often, because you're already so full of yourself as it is, but I think I ought to mention it at least once in awhile."

"You're very kind, m'lady, very kind," he said, and leaned down to lay a kiss – a kiss that was being keenly observed through a hardened set of eyes. Robert's silent fuming was interrupted by his wife.

"Are you going to allow that?" Cora asked bemusedly. He heaved a sigh.

"Why not?" he surrendered. "He is her husband, after all, and it may shock you to hear it…but she could have done worse."

"Worse than the chauffeur?"

Spinning her delicately full circle, Robert drew her back in and held her close, breathing in the dark curls of her crown. It reminded him so much of that first season together, back when he was in hot pursuit of the purse strings rather than the woman they were attached to. But of course he could not have known then what his Cora would one day mean to him: his wife, the mother of his children, his partner, his friend, his confidante.

His love.

"Yes, worse than the chauffeur," he replied, smiling into her hair.

Several minutes of silent dancing passed before he felt her break his embrace and peer up at him tentatively.

"Robert?"

"Yes, my dear?"

"Murray sent a letter. He gave it to Rosamund to deliver to you, and she gave it to me. Now don't get that look on your face because I've already read it." She pressed her lips to a thin line and looked at him sadly, his eyes growing wide and fearful.

"Tell me about Mrs. Moorsum," she demanded.

Dozens of questions blitzed through his mind. What did she know? What did she _not_ know? At the very least there was suspicion, and Robert knew only honesty would answer. He led her to an empty corner, and tremblingly obeyed her command. Every detail, every long withheld painful feeling and perceived offense, whether justified or no, poured forth, and he ended it all with a plea, and a promise.

"But I don't love her Cora, and it never…. it never went beyond that, I promise I –"

"Please don't say anymore. I think I've heard quite enough." Cora rested her cheek on his chest, letting the tears soak into his silk waistcoat. "Let's just have this one last night, this one last dance, before we face everything in the morning."

From across the room Edith observed her parent's hasty retreat and was unable to hide the concern from marring her brow.

"Something interesting?" asked her neglected partner. She looked back swiftly.

"Forgive me, Mr. Napier. I was just watching some of the other couples." He smiled his forgiveness, and she asked, "I missed you after Father's announcement about Bates. Where did you get off to?"

"I went to the stables, actually. I rode – for the first time since the war, I rode."

"And?" she asked. Evelyn paused, considering. At the time it had been a wondrous occurrence, but pronouncing it aloud had a muddying effect, like a grown man perusing his childhood treasures only to find them comprised of junk.

"Do you know…. it wasn't nearly as frightening as I'd made it out to be in my mind. Talking about it now, I feel more foolish than brave that I had put it off for so long."

"Bravery can take on many forms. I can't imagine what it must have been like to learn to live life again, after everything you experienced. When Downton was a hospital I felt how lucky I was, even with all the regular trials of life, just to be alive."

Memories of pettiness and betrayal ghosted between them, and Edith felt suddenly vulnerable to be dancing in the arms of one who knew her past transgressions.

"I like to think it's changed me for the better," she said. The hand at her back lifted to her face, his fingers running lightly, fondly down her cheek.

A waltz by design is intended to dizzy, to loosen the inhibitions of the dancers, and Evelyn felt the full effects of it now and as they spun and leaned forward to close the small gap between them.

"I think you have changed," he whispered, near enough to hear her slight intake of breath and to feel the rush of warmth as she let it out again.

"Do you mind if I cut in?" Branson asked, oblivious to the dual set of fiery glares attempting to roast him on the spot.

"Of course not," Mr. Napier said tightly. "But only on the condition that I can claim another dance to replace this interrupted one," he said before vanishing into the crowd.

Edith rounded on her brother-in-law.

"You'd better have had a good reason for that," she snapped. Branson hoped to allay his sister's wrath by beginning their dance, but feared her irritation only increased when he saw her wince at the crushing blow to her big toe.

"I do. When I was in Ripon picking up Bates I gave Sir Richard a ring."

"Really?" Edith gasped. Her head took several swings around her shoulders to ensure no one lay within earshot. "And what did you say to him?" she asked.

"I told him about the papers that Daisy found. I said that he should get ready, that his involvement with the motor company will be in the papers tomorrow morning."

"So you're going to write up an article about it?"

"Just as soon as I can get out of all this. I'll send it by express. It should make it in time if I start on it shortly." He grinned. "Which is why I'm here actually. How would you like to help me write it?" Edith opened her mouth, shocked.

"Me? Help write the story?"

"Why not? Sybil told me you used to enjoy writing a bit. Little essays about posh people problems."

"I suppose I did. But of course that was ages ago, and I haven't written anything in years." She chewed lightly at her bottom lip – a similar habit of Sybil's, Branson idly registered – before looking up at him doubtfully. "Do you really think I should?"

"Why not?" Branson planted his feet into the ground, effectively halting their dance and putting him in optimal position for persuasive gesticulating. "Just think of it, m'lady: your name, splashed across the headlines – but in a good way! What do you say?"

Edith took a few more nibbles. The offer was enticing, and Branson knew his point was won when he saw her face light up.

"I say…what are we waiting for!"

* * *

><p>Muffling his footfalls, Carson saw her white ball gown gleaming in the darkness, and his mind stretched through the decades to conjure a child tugging at his pant leg, black, wild hair blending in to his dark livery. The little girl was weeping, pouring out her soul after another miserably failed escape.<p>

_Mr. Carson, I made it to the stables this time, but Lynch caught me and tugged me back!_

_Mr. Carson, I begged Edith to join me but instead she tattled to Mama!_

_Mr. Carson, I was almost to the gate before Taylor drove in and scolded me for nearly getting run over!_

"Lady Mary. You'll catch your death of cold out here," he said when he drew near, draping his coat across her shoulders.

"I'll be fine, Carson," she said, but did not make to remove it.

She stared into the distance.

"I noticed that Mr. Crawley has returned to the ball," he said.

"Yes."

"And how did he leave you?"

"Much the same way you found me."

Carson cursed the trails of drops streaking down her face, and even more the man who dared invite them.

"Then he does not deserve you," he growled. "You've done nothing to be ashamed of, and if he can't recognize that then he's a greater fool than I ever thought him."

Her head whipped up, eyes glistening, open to him in a way they had not been since they first slipped her into a corset and squeezed the last of the fight out of her.

"Oh, Carson! Is there anything I could do that would lose your approval?"

"No. And you never shall." He sat down beside her on the bench. "And it's not only me, my lady. All of us are here for you – the staff, your family – and we shall all stand beside you, no matter what the morrow may bring."

"I know, Carson." Drying her eyes on his coat she looked over at the house beyond, glowing bright and beautiful – the home of her youth, though it could never rightfully be called hers. But even so, housed within were the people in her life, so much more valuable than stone or mortar ever could be.

"It's strange," she said curiously. "My whole life was spent surrounded by people, but now, for the first time ever, I don't feel alone."

By now his coat was peppered with white flakes, and as Carson patted her back fondly, she breathed in the cold, clean air – fearless, painless – and without a single drop left in her eyes.

* * *

><p>Quiet mumblings issued from the receiver. Sir Richard absorbed the sounds impassively, and with a soft click he hung up the phone and pressed his fingers into his eyes.<p>

Mr. Branson hadn't been lying – the warehouse had been raided that morning, and documents were trickling in about his direct connection to the Cooperton Motor Company, his informants on the newspaper beat telling him that an exposé was already on the printing press.

The morning light would see the airing of his scandal exposed through the very medium that had made him who he was. Sir Richard laughed, wondering what Lady Mary would say to that.

_How fitting._

Life in prison. Execution. The various scenarios played out before him. But there were alternatives to a public flogging, he knew. Opening a desk drawer he reached inside, pulled out a sleek, black pistol, and laid it atop his newspapers' Christmas day cover story – penned by his very own hand: _Dead in Her Bed – Lady Mary Crawley and Her Turkish Lover._

Tomorrow morning would see the dawn of his ruin, there was no doubt about that. The only question, he mused, was whether his former fiancé would join him on the stage of exposure, and – tapping his finger on the narrow barrel of the gun – whether he would even be there to see it.


	12. Day 12: Celebrations!

_So here it is! The final chapter! I don't think I can adequately express how happy I am to be done with this fic. I will already warn you that this is long and like...99% fluff and crack.  
><em>

_Thanks as always to AriadneO and Jadeandlilac for their insights and corrections._

* * *

><p><strong>Day 12: Celebrations!<strong>

Cloudless skies and a blanched earth greeted the sun as it crested the horizon on Christmas day. Morning rays flashed unimpeded to frame the brickwork of the Abbey, some even resourceful enough to worm their way through a set of half-drawn and distinctly familiar draperies. Their light was just enough to allow John Bates to study his lavish surroundings – the rich mahogany of the headboard, the intricate stitching on the duvet, and the most breathtaking sight of all – the exquisite jawline of his sleeping wife.

Her lips were graced with that slight upward curve that gives the impression of pleasant dreaming, and as he lifted a blonde tress off of her neck she began to stir, opening her eyes to his gentle face hovering near hers while her own face split open to a grin.

"Good morning, Mr. Bates," she said in that raspy way which suggests a very late night. The smile already in place on his lips broadened.

"Good morning, Anna."

Leaning over he kissed her, feeling that oneness, that unity decreed by each other, by the law – by heaven itself – and sealed with a love and longing that neither schemes nor vengeance could put asunder.

When he pulled away she pouted, and John shook his head with an insincere "tsk" as he reached down for his coat sprawled on the floor. Retrieving the garment, his hand disappeared into the pocket, and reemerged clasping a plain, white box, which he wordlessly placed into her lap.

She peered at the package, bemused.

"What is this?"

"It's your Christmas present." She pursed her lips, too happy for any feelings of real indignation, but still put out enough to feign annoyance.

"And just when did you have enough time to go Christmas shopping?"

He laughed. "Mr. Branson was kind enough to make a stop on our way back from Ripon."

"I'm sure he was. But I have to say I might have preferred an earlier arrival than whatever I've got in my hands here."

"You'll have to be the judge of that once you open it. Go on," he urged. Curiosity beat out any mild irritation and she lifted the box lid, pulling from inside a slim sheaf of documents.

"What is this?" she asked. She looked down to read the first few lines, but still appeared perplexed. "I don't understand. What have you gotten me?"

"It's a deed." Three little words, said in his usual soft and firm way – but they had the power to send shockwaves through Anna's arm that sent the papers in her hand quivering. "With Vera gone, all the money's come back to me, and all that time I had in prison, I was looking into hotels up for sale."

"You bought me a hotel?" she said, barely a whisper in the large, quiet bedroom. He covered her hands to steady them.

"I bought us a life – away from here, away from Downton – where we can start all over again, just the two of us."

She set the papers aside and looked at him with wet eyes.

"But what if you'd been found guilty? You tell me that in prison you were looking at hotels for us so we could start a new life, but what if the only new life I'd be starting was one alone, as a widow?" He shook his head.

"I wouldn't let myself believe that, not after how you stood by me, even when everything seemed hopeless. Planning our future together, believing that we _had_ a future together – it was the only thing that got me through some of those days."

She reached for the deed – stark white paper crammed with tiny, block print – and held it cautiously. This was her future, resting here in her palms, and she stared at the words as they bled together from the small droplets cascading down upon them.

"I don't know what to say," she said.

"Say that you're happy."

She looked up at him. "I don't think I could ever be happier!" she cried, launching herself into his arms. After a few moments she pulled away, both his hands at her face as they wiped away the last of her tears. "But where is it?" she asked.

"The hotel, you mean?"

"Yes."

"Some small town up north. Only a few hours drive, really." A fuzzy memory worked its way to the surface of Anna's mind – surely it couldn't be – but she didn't have time to voice her suspicion before Bates asked, "Have you ever heard of the _The Swan Inn_?"

* * *

><p>Three rows of ornate cufflinks blinked back at Thomas from their walnut case. With careful consideration he made his selection and carried the chosen pair to the window where his master stood by the open drapes, admiring the frosty blanket draped over every inch of his estate.<p>

"I always dread the first snow of the season, until it actually comes. Stunning, isn't it?" the Earl asked, inhaling grandly.

Thomas found even the suggestion of skin-biting snow a dreary and miserable prospect to contemplate, but easily swallowed down his natural acerbity – his Lordship was a chatty sort and verbal forbearance was as necessary as air in his line of work.

"Quite so, milord."

Quietly and artfully Thomas performed his duties. Buttons were buttoned, hooks were fastened, and as Thomas gave the broad shoulders a final brush down he withheld a bitter sigh at the realization that this would be his last morning working in His Lordship's dressing room; for Bates was back, yet again, and ready to claim ownership of the post that Thomas had so long yearned for, and though there was no denying it rankled, if the war had taught Thomas anything it was to be grateful for small mercies, and he determined to relinquish the prize readily, even if still begrudgingly.

At length his Lordship spoke again.

"I never thanked you for sorting out that business with the new footmen. To think all this time I've been employing gamblers." Robert turned to inspect himself in the full-length mirror. "What do you think should be done with them?" he asked of his valet's reflection.

Thomas raised his head.

"Everyone makes mistakes, milord," he said slowly. "For lots of different reasons. They seemed sorry for it, and I think that should be enough for a second chance."

The Earl looked thoughtful, rolling around the idea in his mind. "Yes," he said softly, and then more loudly, "Where would any of us be without second chances?"

Thomas bowed.

Still watching carefully from the mirror, Robert said, "I've had word from Bates. He will not be returning to his post as my valet." Thomas' face appeared impassive at the news, but in the watch glass Robert caught the gloved fist minutely clench. "I've spoken with Carson," he continued mildly. "We've agreed to offer you the post – that is, if you're amenable to making your current position more permanent."

Thomas let out a breath.

"I would, milord. In fact, it would be my privilege."

"Very good, then!" Robert turned around and held out both wrists. "Now, which cufflinks have you chosen for me today?"

* * *

><p>O'Brien had insisted on a warm velvet dress and at least two shawls while her ladyship breakfasted in her dressing room, but even bundled as she was, Cora had never felt colder in her life.<p>

The storm had blown over, but its effects had yet to pass. Cora stared numbly out the window, a field of snow covering the grounds, and wondered whether there could ever be a return to the lush gardens and warm sunshine that had marked the spring of her married life, before it had been thrust into this unceasing winter.

"Is everything all right, my lady?"

Cora smiled briefly. Dear O'Brien. She could hide nothing from her.

"No," she replied ruefully. "No, it is not. And I'm not sure it ever can be."

Sarah laid the blouse in her hands onto the bed and knelt at her ladyship's feet.

"What is it, milady? Can I be of any help?"

Cora shook her head, attempted to form words, but was beset by a bout of tears that disabled her lips from speaking. O'Brien stuffed a handkerchief into her mistress' hand which Cora brought to her face, blotting her tears and muffling her voice when she spoke. "What is there to do when you've been betrayed by someone you thought you could trust with everything?"

O'Brien's throat tightened. Did she know? Of course she did not know. Whatever her ladyship was alluding to, it had nothing to do with a maliciously placed bar of soap.

"Please, milady." O'Brien laid a hand to her back and rubbed small circles in the space between her ladyship's shoulder blades. "If there is anything I can do, please tell me. I hate to see you so distressed."

Cora turned and squeezed O'Brien's hand.

"You do quite enough for me as it is." She sighed. "No. This is something I must face on my own – and I will. I need to forgive those I love, and those who love me. Even if they have hurt me beyond what I thought possible."

Sarah's heart clenched with the secret she knew would stay burrowed in her heart till its final beat. A confession dangled on her lips, but her common sense reasserted itself and let it go no further. Although her Ladyship's words of assurance were not intended for her, O'Brien still felt that gnawing pain, that continual acid drip in her heart subside with the conviction that, had she known, her lady would indeed have forgiven her. This was Cora Crawley, and she was capable of no less.

* * *

><p>Twelve days ago the breakfast table had been dismally thin, so Edith recalled. She could have labeled herself something of a parasite then, leeching any morsel of acknowledgement from parents too preoccupied to notice the shadow sitting beside them. Now, less than a fortnight later, the parlor was almost uncomfortably cramped. Chatter flew back and forth, side-to-side – at times even shockingly diagonal – but there was at least one seated among the throng whose mouth stayed perpetually closed and pensive.<p>

For a little while Lady Mary knew she remained safe. Lord Grantham was engrossed in conversation with Sir Anthony to his right and had so far neglected the newspaper sitting perilously at his elbow. But when the flow of words between the two men ebbed and her father's hand began to creep towards the ironed stack, Lady Mary set down her fork, no longer even capable of the appearance of appetite.

_It would be only seconds –_

"What the devil?"

_The headline would sink in –_

"Mary! Have you seen this?"

_And she would be lost to him forever –_

"Mary! Mary, for heaven's sake, open your eyes and read this!"

His tone was unexpected, more urgent than disgusted, and when she heeded her father's command, snapping open her eyes to see the front page he held before her, she was shocked to read:

**Sir**_** Richard Carlisle Found Dead in London Office – Police Suspect Suicide**_

Bewildered, dizzied, at a complete loss for words until her eyes glanced over to the article situated just beside:

_** Sir Richard Carlisle Linked to War Profiteering**_

Stunned, speechless, her mind a whirl of conflicting emotions until her eyes trailed down to the byline beneath:

_By Tom Branson and Edith Crawley_

Her eyes were glued to the latter name, and in due course they rose to rest upon her younger sister sitting directly across.

Brown eyes met green.

A silent pact was forged.

A truce.

* * *

><p>The post-breakfast lull was anything but for the denizens of the servants' hall at a grand estate such as Downton Abbey. Under normal circumstances, the amount of scurrying betwixt the hours of nine and noon could rival that of a bloated rat's nest, but today – Christmas day – saw the one exception to the rule, when schedules were magnanimously rearranged to accommodate a simultaneous luncheon and gift exchange both above and below stairs.<p>

The servants were nearly ready to sit down to their meal, and Carson had only minutes to accomplish the deed if he wanted to perform it sans the prying eyes of his many underlings.

He accosted Mrs. Hughes in her sitting room just as she was making to quit it.

"Well, Mr. Carson. Right on schedule, as usual," the housekeeper said while moving back inside the parlor and taking one of the open seats.

"We are creatures of habit, Mrs. Hughes, and I wouldn't have it any other way." He sat in the open chair beside hers, and without preamble Mrs. Hughes retrieved a package from her desk drawer and placed it into his lap. Removing the paper, Carson's grizzly eyebrows proceeded to shoot up high enough to nearly brush his hairline when he caught sight of the heavy tome within.

"A new copy of Burke's Peerage?"

"Your old one was getting a bit worse for the wear. I hate to think of you making preparations for some guest or other without knowing whether or not they can be traced back to the conqueror."

"Very clever of you, Mrs. Hughes." He'd been yearning for the newest edition but had not as yet breathed a word to anyone. "I suppose you think you've outdone me this year."

"There's only one way to find that out," she retorted, and held out her palm, into which he laid the typical small box, covered with an atypically ornate bow.

"Happy Christmas, Mrs. Hughes."

She cocked an eye at him.

"Did you actually spend a little extra to get this wrapped up?" She jiggled the box lightly next to her ear, but heard nothing. "Another ornament, I presume?"

"Open it and see."

Off came the bow, the paper peeled back with painstaking neatness, and with a small amount of unaccountable nervousness (really, how many years would it take to cast off such girlish shyness when opening a gift from the butler?) Mrs. Hughes lifted the hinges on the small velveteen box and gasped at the contents.

"Heavens above!"

Sparkling like a midnight star: a solitary diamond set in a ring of polished white gold.

"Mr. Carson! Is this – is this what I think it is?"

"If you're thinking it is an engagement ring, then yes, you are correct."

"But they would never allow it!" she hissed in undertone. "We'd both lose our jobs, and –"

"Come now, Mrs. Hughes. Do you honestly believe I would propose marriage without every detail adequately provided for? I've already spoken to his Lordship and all the arrangements have been made." He cleared his throat. "That is, if you will accept me."

"But why now? After all this time…?"

"Because I love you, Elsie." And there it was, the elephant in the room that had sat pretty in the corner for nigh onto fifteen years, and with but five little words he had whipped off the Holland cover and exposed it for both to see.

There was no going back.

"Mr. Carson…_Charles_." She looked down at the ring. "I'm not sure what I should say."

"A housekeeper at a loss for words? Perish the thought." That lifted her eyes back up straight away, and he forestalled the severe scolding poised on her lips by grasping her hand. "Say yes," he whispered.

She swallowed down the lump rising in her throat.

"Of course my answer is yes," she clucked, and felt it reasonable to spend a few moments composing herself. They sat there, hands clasped together in companionable silence for several moments before she quietly asked, "Can I put it on?"

He raised her left hand to his lips, and kissed it softly.

"As long as you promise never to take it off."

* * *

><p>"What do you think's going on in there?"<p>

Ethel's pert gaze was zeroed in on the firmly shut door of the housekeeper's parlor. Apparently her moral journey had not subdued her inclination towards nosiness, and while she'd learned some lessons the hard way, it was clear she was still several miles off from perfection.

Anna quelled a laugh and adopted her best head-housemaid voice. "Whatever it is, you best leave it well alone. It's common knowledge not to interrupt Mr. Carson and Mrs. Hughes when they're speaking privately." Ethel had a retort roaring to go, but the subject was duly dropped when they heard a high pitched squeal sounding at the servant's entrance.

"Ethel! I'd like you to meet Mr. Mason!"

Trailing in Daisy's wake was a short man a few decades past middle age. He had a bounce in his step, and Ethel was mildly surprised at such a visual display of energy in one who seemed older than dirt.

"Hello, Mr. Mason," she said tentatively, shifting Charlie from her right hip to her left so she could shake the gentleman's hand.

"Miss Parks." He tipped his hat at the mother but his eyes were all for the child bobbing against her hip.

"This is Charlie," Ethel said, holding up the lad in front of her. "Would you like to hold him?"

"If you don't mind." Mr. Mason took the boy in his arms with a grin. "Oh, but he's a squirmy one! Just like my William was!"

Everyone present smiled at the sight, none more so than Anna, who felt a warm and familiar presence sneak up behind her and drape an arm across her shoulders.

Leaving the others, she and Bates left to carry out the errand that they'd both decided in the wee hours of morning would best be accomplished together. They came upon Miss O'Brien, freshly relieved from her duties upstairs, puffing away in her usual spot just outside the back entrance.

"And just what do you two want?" Sarah asked, blowing a column of smoke into their dopey faces as they shared a glance between them.

"To apologize," Anna said. "And to say thank you."

Sarah scoffed.

"I can't imagine what for."

"I know what you did, Miss O'Brien," John said. "Mr. Crawley and Mr. Bellamy explained how they received the evidence that exonerated me. You saved my life, and I think that warrants some gratitude."

"There's no need to thank me for doing the decent thing."

Anna smiled. "Even if there isn't, we wanted to do it all the same." They turned to leave, and were almost inside when Anna indulged in a final glance over her shoulder and a, "Happy Christmas, Miss O'Brien!" brushing shoulders with Thomas who was just on his way out.

He came to his place beside her, striking a match as he asked, "What did those two want?"

"To feel better about themselves, that's what," she sniped, but couldn't control the tiny smile on her face that evinced the even tinier swell in her heart.

The treacly moment was quickly over. With a brief nod, he said brusquely, "What you got for me?"

O'Brien smirked. "The usual," she said, and laid into his open hand a pack of fine Turkish cigarettes. "And me?" she asked, expecting a pack of gamblers in return, and was shocked when instead he plopped an ornately wrapped box into her arms.

"Thought I'd spring for something special, this year," he explained.

"That's some expensive paper you've got here." She looked at him with suspicion. "Don't tell me you're going bloody soft on me," she said, eyeing the green bow in distrust.

"Not likely. Girl at the shop wrapped it up for free after I complimented her scarf."

"Was it nice?"

"Ugly as sin."

Without another word Sarah began shredding through the wrapping, but she didn't get very far before recognizing the contents within. Her heart skipped several beats and she felt her knees wobbling like a bowl of trifle when she took in the sight – right here, in her very own hands – of the one item she'd daily dreamed of but never dared purchase for herself:

A new button box.

"It's…beautiful," O'Brien managed to choke out. "I…I've never seen its like."

Thomas reached over to awkwardly pat his friend's shoulder. If he'd known the soapy reaction his gift would have induced he would have tossed it into the lake as soon as present it to her. But she was happy, and any sacrifice to his comfort was a small price to pay for all the times she'd stuck her neck in the noose for him.

He gave one last, reassuring pat.

"Happy Christmas, O'Brien."

* * *

><p>He felt markedly out of place amidst the lavish Christmas attire, every member of the family gussied up like a holiday parcel while he sat there mutely in a cheap suit, feeling like a lump of coal. What was the typical Crawley method for giving, receiving, and opening Christmas presents? Did they simply chuck packages into each other's laps like he did growing up in Dublin? Would they end the gift exchange with something akin to the traditional Branson beer and brawl?<p>

Somehow that seemed unlikely.

"Papa and Mama always start by exchanging gifts with each other," Sybil whispered from beside him, and true to her word the Earl and Countess of Grantham turned and proffered to one another a set of handsomely decorated packages.

It was customary for the Earl of Grantham to purchase a new set of earrings for his wife's collection, and this Christmas he had chosen a pair of diamond studs.

"Oh, Robert. They're breathtaking."

"Hardly compares to the woman they're meant to adorn." She cast him a playful look, and he smiled. "But I'm glad you like them anyway."

Terse words and harsh whispers had filled the bulk of their morning as they spoke in the privacy of their bedroom. Apologies had been made, forgiveness had been granted. They were still not whole, but as Cora fingered the sparkling jewels in her palm, stones whose beauty would never fade, she felt the seams in her marriage begin to mend, and it was as good of a start as any in this brave new world.

Opposite the Lord and Lady of the manor sat Lady Rosamund and the fully recovered Viscount on the loveseat sofa. It was the first day he'd stepped foot out of the sickroom since the bout of stomach flu had seized him, and his mood was so much lifted at the release that he eschewed his natural silence to indulge in a bit of conversation.

"Happy Christmas, Lady Rosamund." Rosamund started at the unexpected sound.

"Thank you, my lord." She could not recall having once heard his voice the entire length of his stay, and was at a loss for words, settling at last on a trite reply to test the waters. "I know it's been a bit of an awkward holiday, but I hope you've enjoyed your stay at Downton."

"I have many fond memories of Christmas in the country, and this will no doubt fail to number among them."

Rosamund smiled. What a pleasant surprise!

"How heartwarming. And next I suppose you'll tell me I remind you of your late wife."

The Viscount grunted.

"Not at all. Harriet was a very nice woman, with a sweet disposition." At her abrupt laugh he cocked his head at her with a leery, "Might I ask what it is you find so amusing?"

"Oh, it's nothing my lord, only that I like a man who doesn't mince words."

Violet could not contain her chuckle when she caught her daughter's eyes waggle in that familiar, lascivious way. Her girl was never down for long – it was a family trait – and she took in the Viscount's alarmed expression with particular relish. That man had no idea what lay in store for him!

But the Dowager's happy thoughts were soon interrupted by a wicked elbow jab – her granddaughter's fidgeting from beside her was beginning to do more than simply irritate. "Sybil!" she snipped. "What on earth are you doing over there?"

Sybil ignored her Granny's question and continued to fish around in the small sack at her feet, retrieving from inside a trim little box. "For you, darling," she said with uncharacteristic shyness as she rose from her seat and knelt down on the floor in front of her husband.

Branson looked down at her askance – hadn't they said no gifts this year? – but said nothing, feeling the weight of every aristocratic eye lingering on his hand as he meticulously peeled back the wrapping paper, slowly removed the silver lid, gently pulled aside the crinkling white tissue, and at long last reached into the inner depths of the package to grasp and lift out a pair of atrociously knitted booties.

While his audience choked on a collective gasp, Branson brought the offensive needlework close to his face, examining the frayed, blob-like bits of yarn with an undecipherable expression on his face. Sybil held her breath.

"What _are_ these?" he sputtered, his complete confusion drowned out by a sea of happy exclamations.

"_How wonderful!"_

"_Absolutely marvelous!"_

"_My first grandchild!"_

Sybil let out her breath. The Bransons' first visit back at Downton had been accomplished with much unease but very little throttling, and as she took in the happy squeals of her mother, the reluctant smile of her father, the amused eyebrows of her sisters, and – the best gift of all – the ecstatic expression of her husband, she could not recall a happier Christmas spent in her childhood home.

* * *

><p>Matthew had, upon first arriving at Downton, considered the annual Christmas day post-luncheon snowball fight with something of wry bemusement. Of course, it hadn't snowed enough the first two years to partake of the tradition properly, and then the war had thrown such a damper over every subsequent Christmas that the ritual was temporarily abandoned altogether.<p>

But it was the dawn of a new age, and while the other combatants prepared the ammunition out on the lawn, Matthew stood alone in the garden, working out the logistics of how to win over the one lady from whom his heart could never properly become disentangled, no matter how stupidly hard he tried.

The morning light had dispelled the storm clouds raging in his mind, and in the clearness of day, it had finally occurred to him what an utter fool he'd been – and not only in the last few days. There was much to be done if he was to win back his lady's favor, and he determined that the first step would be a gift of her favorite flower – blood red roses – the procurement of which would be difficult at this time of year. But no matter. Nothing would stop him from accomplishing it, and he rehearsed their delivery now:

He would get down upon one knee – no, only two knees would suffice. Tenderly he would reach for her hand and press into it the dozen long stems. They would be smooth, stripped of any thorn so as to preclude the possibility of nicking one of her delicate fingers. She would feel the absence, and remark upon it.

"A rose without thorns?" she would breathlessly ask, at which point the background music would romantically swell and he would swooningly reply:

"You're my thorn…"

It was in this position that Lady Mary stumbled upon her cousin, both knees buried in the snow and proffering to a blighted, frostbitten shrub an imaginary bouquet.

In her mind she was already wording a discreetly constructed request for a referral to Dr. Clarkson's most trusted psychiatrist, but aloud she said hesitantly, "Matthew? Is everything…quite alright?"

At her voice he hastily righted himself, trouser legs drenched and with the face of a guppy soon to be gobbled up by a shark.

"Mary!" he nearly shouted. She visibly started.

"Forgive me! I didn't mean to intrude, I –"

"No. No, please." He reached a hand towards her. "I very much desire to speak with you." A bitter swell rose in her breast – his desire had come several hours too late –and he interpreted her delayed response as leave to continue. "I should not have left you last night. I was very shocked, you see, and I –"

"Your actions are your own business, and there's no need for you to explain them," she cut in, crisp and smooth as a sharpened blade as she turned on her heel to leave. She had nearly made it to the lane that led to the gate when he at last caught up with her.

"Please, Mary," he begged, catching her by the arm. He spun her around to face him, but she avoided his gaze, choosing instead to peer down at the shriveled hydrangea to her right. "There is much I need to explain. I fear I have hurt you, which was never my intention. As I said, I was shocked, of course, but that was no excuse for –" he stopped here and laughed humorlessly. "What a cursed fool I am! It seems as though I am forever asking for your forgiveness."

"There's no need to feel foolish over that. You wouldn't be the first man to prefer making apologies to acting in a way so as to preclude them."

"Mary," he said quietly. "For once, let us not speak circles around each other."

His request caught her off-guard, and she looked up to him. His eyes were in earnest.

"What happened with Pamuk," he continued, "that was your business and years ago. I have no intention of making any judgment. "

Mary felt the beginnings of a sting pricking her eyes. Matthew wished her to speak plainly, to relay her heart directly to her voice without the veiling effects of bravado. But Mary was unused to living without masquerading, and in her meager attempt could do nothing but blurt out the first words that sprang into her throat.

"I didn't love him!"

She saw him soften at the declaration, and his next words were spoken through the thick film of emotion.

"What matters is not what happened then or even how you felt then. All I care for is how you feel now." He took her hand in his. "I love you, Mary. I love you and I've tried to deny it, I've tried to put it to death, and it was wrong of me! All of it! For there is nothing that would be a greater honor than loving you, save for knowing that my love is returned, and that you would consent to become my wife."

"Matthew?" she breathed. "Are you proposing? Now, after all this time?"

"Yes, I am." He shook his head. "I've been blind, I've been a fool, but I hope, I desperately hope, that it won't prevent me from becoming your husband."

She lifted her free hand to her face to capture the deluge his words had unleashed.

"If you could know," she cried. "If you could only know…the things I've longed to say but for the pride that has prevented me!"

"Don't let pride be an obstacle now. Let it never be an obstacle between us again."

"Very well, then." She sniffed. "I love you, Matthew. I never stopped loving you."

"Then you accept me?"

"Yes!" she cried, that sound between laughter and tears. "Yes, I do!"

And there, in a dying garden, he kissed her in the snow on Christmas day.

* * *

><p>Across the white lawn, Edith's two beaus were bent over, stacking up neat rows of snowballs as she smiled dreamily, admiring the view.<p>

"Got some options going for you, I see." Her smile quickly disappeared at the voice of her brother-in-law behind her.

"Yes," she said, but did not turn around. "It's rather strange, really. I'm not at all used it to it. When the gentlemen came, it was always for Mary, and then later Sybil. I'm used to grabbing for whatever I can, not actually having choices."

"Well, I don't want to complicate things for you," he said, and something in his tone caused Edith to crane her neck around, "but how would you like another?

The rest of her body followed suit and she was facing him fully when she asked, "What do you mean?"

"I had a call from my editor. He was impressed with your work and wants to offer you a job."

"Me?" she squeaked, bringing a hand to her chest for emphasis. "A journalist? Well, I – I've never thought of that before." Her green eyes lightened, but after a moment's consideration they darkened and she shook her head. "But wouldn't I have to move to Ireland?"

"Not exactly. You could be an occasional correspondent, send over editorials about life on the other side of the tracks. My editor thinks it could be of interest to our readership."

"I'm not sure what to say."

"Just think about it," he said with a grin, walking several paces off. Edith glanced towards her suitors, then back again toward Branson, and was struck with the complete reversal of fortunes that twelve days time could bring. Casting her face up to the sun, she removed one of her leather gloves and held her hand against the spotless blue sky, watching the light – the opportunity – dancing through her fingertips.

Mary strode by just then and informed the overwrought statue resembling her sister (how many times had their governess warned Edith about staring directly into the sun?) that the game would soon commence, and realized too late that her task had unfortunately lodged her into the rough vicinity of her brother-in-law. She had every intention of rebuffing the man, but Branson could never identify a proper snub when he saw one and actually had the audacity to _look_ at her, even going so far as to bid her a "Happy Christmas, m'lady!"

Mary scowled.

She didn't like him. She would _never_ like him. He was the chauffeur, for heaven's sake, and always would be. But more than that, he was Sybil's husband, the one who snatched away her baby sister's heart and settled it hundreds of miles away from her.

And yet, despise him as she may, he was still one half of her guardian angel.

Mary opened her mouth. She closed it. She rehearsed the hasty "Hello, Branson!" in her mind, but the message never quite made it to her mouth. It got stuck somewhere in the sensible portions of her brain, the part that knew Tom Branson deserved no words of acknowledgement from her.

And so, nodding her head once in his general direction, she left without a word, passing by her younger sister along the way.

Sybil's eyes trailed after her sister's retreating figure. "What was that all about?" she asked her husband. "Is Mary finally speaking to you?"

"Not quite. But I think she's almost there."

"Well she'll have plenty of opportunities, you can be sure of that," she said, overlooking the expression of horror that was now crossing his face. It was perhaps cruel to reference a future visit when their current one had not yet come to a close, but she paid no mind, and blithely hooked her arm into his and began tugging. "Come now, darling, we'd best move over to our side before the game starts."

His look of horror intensified.

"You mean to the family's side?" he asked, aghast.

"Well, of course!"

"I'm sorry, m'lady, but I'm afraid not. I'll be joining my fellow workers for the match, and that I do know."

"You can't be serious!" she cried. "You're part of the family now!" Her rage was such that she barely heard his muttering refutations, something about "rights of the common man" and "socialist immunity" – whatever that meant – and in due course other voices were added to his in promoting his stance.

"Forgive me, milady, but of course Mr. Branson is on our side!" Anna said. "You can't go stealing away our players just because you married them!" The other servants nodded in agreement, Daisy even punching the air with an exuberant "Ya, that's right!"

"Very well," Sybil said. "Then we are to be…_opponents_!" she cried, enunciating her point with a concealed snowball that she dexterously launched into her husband's insufferably smug face.

Very slowly and very methodically Branson wiped the ice out of his eyes.

"That was not very lady like," he said, low and menacing, advancing on his wife rapidly. A somewhat unearthly and not entirely human sound was shortly emitted from Sybil Branson's mouth as a handful of snow slid down the back of her frock.

"You _monster_!" she shrieked, the high pitch of her wail sending all the participants scattering to their respective ends and officially signaling the start of the battle royale.

Team Crawley found the obvious general in Lady Mary, who with stern confidence began issuing crisp orders to the family: "Matthew and Mr. Napier shall build the snow-trench defenses! Papa and Sir Anthony will maintain the ammunition reserves and act as moral support! Cousin Isobel is on medical detail! Sybil to scout out enemy territory – permission to use powers of seduction if required! Edith…. just try not to get in anyone's way…."

Team Servants would naturally have had the numbers advantage, had not many of them felt they had better ways to spend their afternoon off. O'Brien, for example, found the entire affair ridiculous, but her disdain for the sport did not stop her from solicitously shadowing her mistress as Cora stood serenely amidst the chaotic swirl, lobbing pathetically sized bits of snow at nothing in particular which inexplicably managed to pelt at least three unsuspecting hall boys. Mr. Carson, too, was missing from the battle, which left Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore to duke out which downstairs matron would be conferred the title of commander-in-chief.

"Grab that snowball, Daisy!"

"No, Daisy, come here and help build up a snow bunker!"

"She's got quick hands, she'll do better on the offensive!"

"I think I know Daisy well enough to decide where she'll best be useful!"

Daisy stood helplessly in no man's land, hopping from foot to foot as though standing on coals, until she was blasted by no less than half a dozen snowballs and dismissed from the match entirely.

Anna squeezed her beloved's hand and they shared a silent prayer for their fallen compatriot before propelling themselves over the snow wall and littering the opposition in a kamikaze style bombardment. Their raid was suicidal – both were soon found sprawled on the ground under piles of crushed ice – but effective: Matthew found his face plastered in snowy white residue which contained a yellowish hue he'd rather not dwell on, what with Isis scampering about, and collapsed dramatically into the snow.

"Mary! I've been hit!"

Mary ignored the craven whimpering of her beloved – causalities were a necessary sacrifice in any war, he should know that – her jet eyes burning like coals on the fire. Yes, yes, it was all coming together! Under her careful command she watched as each enemy soldier was meticulously felled by her brilliant stratagems. Thomas was taken out by a snowball to the back – quite fitting, she rather thought – and out of the corner of her eye she nearly gasped when Edith tripped and her snow ball went sailing into Lily's scowling face.

There remained only a few stragglers to the enemy's ranks, and she calculated with precision the best maneuvers to pick the last of them off. She would need Sybil – where was Sybil? – and searching the grounds she caught her sister approaching from the right, a single snowball perched in her hand.

"Sybil! I need you to distract them while I attack from their flank!"

Sybil smiled sweetly, and in one, deft stroke the snowball in her hand sailed through the air and splattered dead center between Lady Mary's perfectly coiffed eyebrows.

"So sorry, Mary, but I'm afraid I've been seduced to the other side."

Mary growled, and clenched her fists to the sky.

"Defector!" she cried up at the warm Christmas sun.

* * *

><p>And up in a tower, in an unused and normally unoccupied room, two sets of wrinkled eyes were poised above, observing the silly fray as it spread across the snow covered lawn.<p>

A posh, feminine voice was heard to decry: "Snow on Christmas!"

"A Christmas miracle, some might say."

"And look at them, Carson, all mingled together – engaging in a snowball fight, of all things. It's as though I'm in a poorly written novel!"

Carson chuckled, and after a measure of pause said with a more serious bent of voice, "I'm sure you've seen the headlines. Sir Richard is finished, and Lady Mary's scandal has died along with him."

"Yes. All it took was a well placed tip – by the by, you must remind me to send that cheque to your former colleague – and a bit of grand-parental nudging and off the eager pawns went to solve the mystery."

"And Marigold Shore is now firmly behind bars."

She chuckled victoriously. "One hint in Rosamund's ear about how much I loathed Lady Flintshire's current hair styles and I knew she would snatch up Shore in a thrice. After they arrived at Downton, well…. it was only a matter of time before my machinations managed to expose them."

"And yet you knew who the real the real murderer was. Your perception is uncanny, to say the least."

"Hardly. Shrimpy's a fool if he thinks he can hide anything from his Aunt Violet."

He'd had the foresight to bring a tea service up to the drafty room and poured her a cup. Handing it to her, he asked, "And the footmen, my lady?"

"What? Oh, that. That was pure chance. I'd no notion they were infecting the food, I simply wanted that ghastly barbershop shut down. Have you seen the haircuts the young ladies are walking around with these days?"

"So you've managed it all."

"As I always do." She took a warm sip and cast him a sly eye. "Though not without help. If experience has taught me anything it's that behind every mastermind there is always a capable butler standing in the shadows."

There was no arguing with that.

Together they watched the occupants of Downton Abbey – bedraggled and drenched in snow, and laughing together as they ambled back inside the house. Above and below stairs, they lived and breathed together, woven into the fabric of the house that Violet had considered her home for nearly sixty years.

She smiled.

"Merry Christmas, Carson."

"Merry Christmas, my lady."

END

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Or is it…?

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**IRRELEVENT EPILOGUE!**

Watching from above, she gave what she thought would be a contented sigh, had she still the capacity for breathing.

"And so they're happy, in the end." She smiled sweetly. "It's what I always wanted for him – for both of them."

He looked over to her. She was nodding with such equal portions of serenity and stupidity – how the girl never made Angel was beyond him – that he could no longer withhold the contemptuous chuckle from tripping out of his mouth.

"Completely boring, if you ask me," he sneered. "The eldest daughter engaged to the future heir? Too neat and tidy by half. Give me something more interesting, more scandalous!"

"But they love each other!" cried another voice, the starchy earnestness causing him to groan. "They love each other more than anything and deserve to be together despite all that's happened. It was a good thing Captain Crawley survived, so that he and Lady Mary could have their happy ending!"

Such insipidity induced another long groan. The boy should count himself lucky that the three of them no longer had anything like a stomach, else Kemal might have nearly vomited – but there were other ways he could spew his vitriol.

"Spoken like true cannon fodder…." he drawled, prompting a fierce look out of Miss Swire.

"Don't be so unfeeling, Kemal!" she reproached, and turning said, "I agree with you, William. It's love that matters in the end, not circumstances. Just look at Lady Sybil and Mr. Branson – so happy together, even if this world never intended them for each other."

Kemal examined his fingernails, once again inwardly bewailing that he had failed to get that last manicure before his midnight rendezvous in Lady Mary's bedchamber. Cursed with such imperfect cuticles for all eternity – now that was the real hell.

Or was it?

"Am I really doomed to spend eternity listening to such tripe?" he moaned, bringing both hands up in a great show of covering his eyes, not exactly sure why he bothered with the dramatic, for he could see straight through the incorporeal appendages to where Miss Swire was levitating, fists clenched dangerously, ever closer to being pushed to her breaking point.

"It would certainly take an eternity for you to grow anything like a sense of decency!"

"My, my – the inner flame at last breaks through the fire grate." Kemal floated to where she hovered, rank disapproval evident on her pale, ghostly face. "These moments when your fiery nature comes out – I would say I live for them, but I'm not sure that idiom quite applies here –"

"You're completely insufferable!" she snapped.

"Better to be insufferable than disposable!"

"Please!" William begged. "Could you stop fighting? I hate it when you two fight!"

"Don't worry, William – mommy and daddy always make up, now don't we?" Kemal soothed, making a show of patting the footman's lumpy head fondly while he tossed a saucy wink to a fuming Miss Swire. "Ah, but you're such a sensitive thing, William, always going to pieces over the mildest bickering. It's a wonder you survived a world at war for as long as you did."

William's form flickered, the ghostly equivalent of unabashed bristling.

"I may not like quarreling, but I considered it an honor to fight for my country and my countrymen."

"And for your 'girl' as well?" Kemal asked slyly, laughing when he saw William flinch. "Yes, all your flowery speeches about love and nonsense, and yet your own wife didn't even care for you!"

Miss Swire flew to William's side, consoling.

"Don't listen to him, William, he's only trying to bait you."

"Just telling the truth is more like it," Kemal corrected. "Daisy told you herself how she lied to you – and at your own gravesite, no less!"

William was quiet for a few moments. "Daisy did what she thought right, and I don't fault her for it. I'm just glad I was able to take care of her."

Kemal sighed. His goading had reaped little reward, and as he took in William's rather heroic and dopey gaze, all the Turk could feel was vague disappointment. Wearily he turned towards Miss Swire, hoping that she, at least, might not have yet eschewed with the last traces of her dignity.

"And what about you?" Kemal asked. "I suppose you're just happy to be out of the way so the love birds can finally take flight." Lavinia cast her eyes down at the lovers, and gave a watery smile.

"I'm happy they're happy. Of course I am."

Kemal rubbed at his intangible temples, the effect of which rendered him looking as though to claw out his brain. William Mason and Lavinia Swire – two peas in a pod, the selfless among selfless – and both more than grateful for being given the chance to cast their very lives aside to make way for the happy union of Matthew and Mary Crawley.

And he stuck with them for time everlasting.

"I'm surrounded by martyrs!" Kemal wailed. "What have I _ever_ done to deserve this?"

END

* * *

><p><em>WHEW! Like I said, I am so happy to be done! And I think I have explained everything satisfactorily. If something doesn't make sense just assume Violet is omniscient :D<br>_

_I'd like to thank everyone who read, reviewed, or even just perused for the parts with their favorite characters (not that I could ever be accused of doing that *COUGH*)_. _Your kind comments have really helped motivate me and I appreciate all of you for taking the time! _

_I know it's little late to bid you all a "Merry Christmas", so instead I will just say happy waiting till Series 3!  
><em>

:)


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